Ad Astra Per Aspera
by ZiYu
Summary: The Netherworld is not a place for the faint of heart. Pleinair knows this, and struggles to make a living amongst demons in this Hour of Darkness.
1. Chapter 1: mala tempora currunt

**Disclaimer:** Disgaea belongs to Nippon Ichi. The plot of this fanfiction is mine.

**Author's Notes: **This story primarily focuses on Pleinair's life in the two years between King Krichevskoy's death and Laharl's awakening. In-game spoilers most likely won't occur, except perhaps when I mention it in passing. But if you're worried about spoilers, stop reading and go play the game dood. Sheesh. And if it matters any, I've only played Disgaea DS.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter one: mala tempora currunt**

—bad times are upon us

* * *

A beautiful—albeit slightly aged—woman clad in a flowing black dress with red trim flips a length of blue hair behind slim shoulders. She grabs hold of the old witch's broom and opens the wooden door to her daughter's bedroom...

To find a white rabbit lounging on the bed covers.

"PLEINAIR!"

A chorus of muffled feet is heard as a young child slams the entrance to the humble abode open. Her gown is also lined with red, but unlike her mother's, it is a solid white. She pauses at the doorway and lightly tugs at the red ribbon adorning her head.

"Yes, mama?"

The adult lets out a soft sigh as she lays her broom against the wall and scoops the rabbit up. "You may play with the small animals as often as you'd like, but you're not to bring them indoors. Haven't I told you so before?"

"But..." Pleinair whispers as she scuffles her feet in nervousness. She lets her gaze drift down to the wooden floorboard, finding sudden fascination with the uneven bumps caused by previous surges of rainwater, before she continues. "The bunny...it's injured!"

Pleinair looks back up to her mother's face, warm red eyes widened imploringly. Her mother looks taken back for a moment, before she gently lifts the rabbit in her arms up to inspect it. She notices a gash in its left hind foot.

She smiles softly and crouches down to lower the rabbit on the floor. It's only a minor injury, so she casts a simple Heal spell over the small creature. The rabbit becomes uneasy and fidgets under the gentle greenish-yellow glow, but then relaxes once more as Pleinair's mother uses her other hand to caress its back in smooth circular motions.

"There. All better." She picks the rabbit back up and dispenses it in her daughter's waiting arms. "You should return it to its home now."

Pleinair perks up and gives a shy smile. "Then can I play with them for a little longer outside, mommy?"

She releases an airy chuckle as she ruffles her daughter's sky-blue hair, a shade lighter than the metallic blue that cascades behind her own back. "Of course dear. Just be back in time for dinner."

Pleinair spins on her heels before dashing back out the entranceway into the spring green meadow. She blinks once, and the child is already out of sight, most likely already in the small grove of trees further ahead.

She closes her eyes briefly and smiles as she reclaims the waiting broomstick. Her daughter really is as fast as the wind.

* * *

Pleinair picks up the woven basket she left below the shade of the outer level of trees before running in. She comes to an easy halt as she lowers the rabbit on the ground carpeted by dainty leaves. It immediately hops off to join the awaiting group of matching snow-white rabbits.

Giggling, Pleinair lightly prances right into the center of a pile of leaves. The once scattered creatures gather and leap forward to playfully tackle her small frame.

"Alright, alright! One at a time now!"

She scoops up the rabbit on her right shoulder and dumps it into her open lap. She then procures a red ribbon from the basket and ties it around the rabbit's neck. Once she's done, the rabbit fondly nuzzles her neck and small beady eyes blink affectionately at her identically colored orbs.

A tinkling peal of laughter falls from her lips as her eyes sparkle with merriment. She lays the rabbit in her hands to one side before shifting her head to look at the rest.

"Let's dress all of you up!"

The rabbits skip closer, becoming one massive huddle as they hop forward in unanimous assent.

* * *

Finishing the chore of gathering lint and dust on the floor, Pleinair's mother starts to head for the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. She stops at the sound of tapping from behind.

With faint curiosity, she makes her way back towards the entrance and opens the door.

"Yes? Who is—"

She leaves the question unfinished as her eyes meet the man standing before her, voice dying off in faint surprise. It wasn't a neighbor like she thought it would be. The young man—a ninja, as his green attire of scarf, poofy pants, and bandaged limbs would indicate—is a stranger she certainly has never seen before. Visitors aside from the local populace were a rarity, given the fact that this quaint village lay in a valley that lay at the very outskirts of the Netherworld. The land was a hospitable mix of grassland and woods, but it was situated in the middle of nowhere and secluded by a ring of low hills. Wayward travelers were very few and far between, and it was stranger still to see one who seemed to have just outgrown his teenage years. Most that did come were old veterans who wanted to either explore the whole world or sought some relief from the hubbub and power play that was ever-present at the heart of the Netherworld.

She recovers from her musings and her lips curtsy into a smile. "May I help you?"

The young man politely waves his hand before running it through his slate-gray strands of hair. "No—nothing much. Is there a branch of Rosen Queen in the vicinity?"

She lifts a blue eyebrow in response. "Running out of travelling supplies?"

He shakes his head but lets out a low grunt. "It is nothing urgent. This is just the first house I came upon, so..." He breaks off and begins turning away from the door. "My apologies for disturbing—"

She swings the door open, wider now, as she cuts him off before he can slink away into the shadows. "I'm afraid this small village doesn't have one. You'd have to head to the larger settlement further west."

The stranger casts cool steel eyes back at the doorway. "How far away is it?"

She cradles her chin in one arm, the elbow in the palm of the other hand, as she does the calculations in her head. "It's not exactly..close. Let's see...even if you travel the entire distance with the speed of a ninja...It'll take approximately five—no, eight more days." She twirls a strand of hair around her forefinger as she continues to struggle with her estimates. "Yes...eight. Five is to get to that clearing at the other side of the hills, which actually serves as a decent campsite."

Gray eyebrows furrow and a slight frown makes its way onto the stranger's porcelain face. The shop is evidently farther than he would've liked. She inwardly chuckles in amusement; for a Shadow Ninja, this young man's expressions are far too easy to read. There's no threatening aura from him either, and as a Prophet, she was very sensitive to such things—retired or not.

Her smile widens as she takes a step back into her house and waves her hand. "If you need some food supplies, I can gather a small satchel to tide you over for the next couple of days. Just come inside and rest for a while as I prepare them."

The ninja hesitates on the doorstep as his eyes narrow slightly. But just as she felt no threat from him, he did not detect a sliver of malicious intent in the woman's being. And he really needed to stock up on supplies. After debating it further for a fraction of a second, he nodded and muttered a quiet word of thanks before stepping into the abode.

Pleinair's mother guides him to a seat in the dining room as she wanders to the kitchen corner where the supplies are stored. As she gathers bottles of water and foodstuff from the pantry, she decides to strike up conversation with the youth sitting rigidly in his seat. It didn't hurt to dig for some news of the outside. Being so far away, a war could probably be fought and concluded without ever being brought to their attention.

She settled two packs of mint gum on the kitchen counter. "Any interesting events going on?"

Gray eyes shift and settle on the speaker. His teeth clench before he shakes his head. Leaning back and tilting his chair, the ninja replies, "No change. The Netherworld is in hell and that will not change anytime soon."

She pauses briefly in her rummaging of the storage goods as she glances at him. "Hell? That is a bit too harsh of a description for the Netherworld." Plagued by demon spawns? Yes. Hell? Surely an exaggeration.

The ninja sits straight up again and the front two legs of the chair clatter back on the floor. "Harsh?" he inquired in a tone of mystified disbelief. "With the king dead, demons large and small are—"

"Wait, what?" The former Prophet shrieks, completely abandoning her quest to gather the traveler's supplies. The young ninja eyes her in question, and she proceeds to splutter on. "You. Just said. The king. Died. King—Overlord—the King Kritchevskoy! Dead? A-a-...assassinated?"

It was the slate-haired man's turn to be surprised now. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. "How could you not know? Yes. Choked on his favorite black pretzels." He lets out a low hiss as he taps on the table's surface with his fingers. "And what is a Ninja to do, now that we are bodyguards with a dead charge?"

"I think I need to sit," she gasps. She sways on her feet and collapses in the other chair across from her current guest. After gulping down a few more mouthfuls of air, she finally manages to ask, "How long ago was this?"

"Three days ago." He blinks several times at his own statement. He grunts as he fists a handful of gray locks. "I guess you wouldn't."

She nods slowly as she processes this news. Regaining her composure, she gets back up to return to her task.

"And you've managed to come all the way here in a few days?"

"I told the Dimensional Gatekeeper at the castle to warp me as far away as she could. So I found myself in this part of the land."

Done with gathering the supplies, she grabs a large square cloth and wraps the items in the rusty red linen. She sets it on the table before the man. He promptly proceeds to lift the cloth bag and swings it over a shoulder as he stands up.

"Thank you for..." He pauses, and confusion covers his expression briefly before he schools his features. "For...your kindness."

She laughs melodically as she leads him back to the entrance. "It's nothing. Good luck on your journey."

He nods curtly and departs, disappearing from the meadow like a passing gust of air. As expected of a person from the ninja class.

"Now, about that dinner," she mutters to herself as she returns to the deeper sections of the house, humming along the way. If she didn't hurry, they would be having a late meal tonight.

* * *

She ties a red sash along the neck of the last rabbit. All decorated and groomed now, the fluffy little animals hop about and gently pat each other's ribbons with tender front paws. Suddenly, they stop after they form a ring, and Pleinair blinks her red eyes owlishly in open confusion. She unconsciously grows tense in response to this unusual behavior displayed by the wild critters. Not that having them complacent enough to tie ribbons on _wasn't_ strange, but this seemed...

The rabbit that she had brought back from her house bounds forward into her open arms and lifts a paw, placing it between her eyebrows; at the same time, the other rabbits make small leaps forward, shrinking the circle. A ripple of wind suddenly stirs the once still air, and the leafy canopy rustles overhead as a few stray leaves skid along the dirt floor.

...mysterious. Ritualistic, even.

Her red orbs bore into the beady crimson pupils of the rabbit that hovered like a statue before her. All of a sudden, she feels a tingling warmth course through her body and a concentrated burst of energy on her forehead. What in the Netherworld—

_Usagi Drop._

The words flash through her conscious with crystal clarity as it is branded into her mind. Her scarlet pupils widen even further as she stares in shock at the frozen rabbits. And even if she does not understand what is going on, she can _sense_ that this is a very special event for both her and her rabbit companions.

Trust, loyalty. Absolute devotion, and unbreakable Friendship.

Just as abruptly as it started, the rabbits stir to life again, and the moment is shattered, the supernatural bonds vanishing as if they had never occurred. She blinks a couple more times as she reorients herself. The ears of the rabbits twitch agitatedly, and suddenly they scamper off in all directions. The one in her arms gives her a more forceful nudge before hopping rapidly away.

Pleinair quickly leaps to her feet as her eyes try to follow all the rabbits in their frenzied departure. As she wonders what has caused them to become so unsettled now—what broke that harmonious atmosphere before—she finally spares some attention to her surroundings.

The patches of sky that are visible through the tree branches and leaves are a pitch black. She panics as she realizes that it must be already past dinnertime. She hastily takes two steps before she freezes again. Something is amiss.

Nightfall. It shouldn't be so bright here then.

And then it finally reaches her ear drums, deafening bellows and shrill screams that pierce the night air.

Springing to life, she immediately dashes for the clearing.

* * *

She stops her stirring of the pot of vegetable soup as she hears the heavy stomping of feet and screams. Diving out of her own house, she stares in shock at the scene displayed before her, wavering to and fro across her vision.

She runs over to a doubled-over figure, an elderly brunette that owned the quaint cottage beside hers. A cottage that now had one completely obliterated section of wall.

Pleinair's mother turns her head up, and the sight makes her lungs cease to function. Up above, a swarm of Ahzi Dahaka and Nidhogg circle the air, randomly swooping down to crush buildings while releasing great bursts of Fire Breath. All before her is a sea of raging flames that swallow the scattered wooden structures as they cave into themselves.

She looks back to the grandma beside her and asks urgently, "Are you alright? Ellen!"

However, the elderly woman is too shocked, and her lungs are too clogged with ash for her to muster any response. She hastily casts Omega Heal on her neighbor and proceeds to try and calm her down, but a symphony of screams interrupt her original course of action.

Next thing she knows, she sees the rest of the locals running madly from the village interior. Her stomach lurches as she sees the flames licking their clothes, the fire eating away at their charred flesh and charcoaled skin. She casts Omega Heal with a range of effect to cover all the villagers, but it isn't enough. The dragons above release deep rumbles of laughter and unleash all their flames in this direction now that they are gathered in a single location waiting for death.

She is fast running out of power to cast magic, and the rate at which the flames consume them alive is too fast for her healing spells to undo. Her mind buzzes in panic yet her body functions autonomously, casting Heal again and again over her fellow villagers. She never thought the day would come when she would regret her retirement, her abandonment of her staff, her magic orbs—

Her intuition makes her break off her thoughts and spin backwards. Eyes fling wide open as she sees Pleinair standing at the outer edges of the woods. She ceases to take in any other information that her senses bombard her with.

"RUN!" She screams, but her beloved child remains completely frozen. Her eyes sting as she narrows them again, eyebrows crinkling in pure desperation. "PLEINAIR! GET AWAY _NOW_!"

Pleinair didn't need to be told twice. Her child heeds the order, and turns around to dash back into the shade of trees. Her disappearing back is the last thing Pleinair's mother sees before all is engulfed in a stifling wave of blazing heat.

* * *

The scene is scalded into her memory. Her frantic mind replays the image of the burning village at the base of the hill. She recalls the angry red-orange flames and flurry of yellow sparks reflected in her crimson orbs, the molten embers that singed the grass into withered tufts of black smoldering bits, the dragons looming straight above, her mother's ash-coated face of despair. She hears the cacophony of dying shrieks and the rumbles of mocking laughter. Releasing a series of hacking coughs to expel the choking fumes and ash that she had breathed into her lungs, Pleinair continues to surge onwards.

She runs and runs, she just keeps _moving_, stumbling over fallen logs, leaping over the tittering squirrels and other animals that are also scrambling for their natural hideouts. She nimbly flees from the picture of her village crumbling into rubble and ash, ignoring the twigs that snap at her and scratch her soft skin.

Soon, too soon, the voices die off, fading after a final crescendo of roars and wails. She doesn't know if it is because she's too far away or if it's because it is all over, if they have avoided complete decimation or if everything was pillaged and destroyed. Diving deeper and deeper into the woods, she finally breaks through the trees as she reaches the outskirts on the opposite side.

She slows down as she treks up a neighboring hill of rolling grass. When she reaches the top, her eyes hone in on the sight of the eerily glowing valley that is still burning, burning, _burning_.

She collapses onto her hands and knees, and a strangled sob rips itself from her throat.

* * *

_King Krichevskoy, the mighty ruler of the Netherworld..._

_His long reign came to an abrupt end as the news of his death spread throughout the dark land._

_Ambitious demons rose one after another to seize the opportunity, and thus began the age of turbulence and anarchy._

The Hour of Darkness falls upon the Netherworld.


	2. Chapter 2: sunt lacrimae rerum

**Disclaimer:** Disgaea belongs to 日本一, otherwise known as Nippon Ichi Software.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter two: sunt lacrimae rerum**

—there are tears for things

* * *

She remains like that for a while longer, her body wracked with sobs as she quivers in anguish. But her cries eventually soften until they are muted before reaching her lips. Silent tears make a steady course from watery orbs of blood down to her chin. Pleinair picks herself up from the grass, face lowered to the shadows away from the glow of the distant valley.

She takes a shaky step forward, a step further away from her village. Then another— from her home, a home that no longer _is_. A violent tremor courses down her spine and she stiffens as she makes another step. _Not anymore._

She remains frozen in that position for minutes as the tears continue flowing in rivulets down her cheek.

Another hesitant step forward. Away from her mother. Muscles coiled, rigid, tense. This is farewell—goodbye—they are gone and she is lost with them—

And then just as she begins to think that she is becoming petrified into stone—

_"RUN!"_

—she launches into a running gait.

_Run. Get away. Flee! Run, run, _run_._

She rushes forward; she thinks about heading back. She wants to see her mother again. She wants to see the village in its humble serenity. She yearns for so much, but she knows she cannot turn back.

Her mother's tone was pleading, desperate. But worst of all, it sounded _final_. She had dashed away from the nightmare, and she instinctively knew that if she retraced her footsteps, she would be greeted by nothing.

And that was the most frightening thing of all. _Nothing_. Complete and total loss. She didn't want to go back and see it. She didn't want to know what emptiness truly entails. Because surely, she'd be crushed by the revelation.

So she puts one foot in front of the other, repeating the motion again and again, covering ground that she has never stepped into before.

She was breezing past the scenery. The world. What she had just witnessed, what she may witness in the future—none of it mattered, would matter.

Because she wouldn't be heading back. She was just passing through.

_Passing through._

Past lush grass, more grass, weeds interwoven. Past the pastel daisies, the floating dandelion seeds, and the occasional tombstone...or perhaps they were just the foundations of rocks.

Eyes locked forward. _Don't look back._ She needn't do so. She _can't_.

Dashing on ahead, up a gentle slope, leaping down a slight incline...

_Just passing, passing through..._

Past a dashing ninja...

_Wait a second._

Pleinair skids to a stop and turns.

She stares at the first person she has come across since she left her village, the figure of a young man dressed in grayish-green, outlined by the golden rays of the already risen sun.

_...Sunlight?_

She suddenly notices the light-headed dizziness of her head and the harsh gasps and breaths she takes into her scorched lungs. She feels as if her legs are not there, but they obviously are. _Strange_, she concludes of her self-assessment.

_Oh. The sun._ That meant it was late morning. She had been running for the entire night. _That's nice._ Somewhere else in her mind, something says it isn't. She opens her mouth to—to do what? Speak? Then say what? Her head is still spinning.

She looks up, but her vision is blurring. And the adult before her is moving to the side and...up? Up—as in skywards. That couldn't be right.

Next thing she knows, the earth lurches forward to greet her as she crumples and falls to the ground.

* * *

She wakes up and lifts a tentative finger towards her face. The sides are wet with running tears, and she hastily wipes them away with trembling hands. Shock— her brain went haywire with it, apparently. She gently shakes her head in the minutest of motions and blinks back the moisture from her crimson eyes, letting her mind become peacefully blank—_numb? _—as she calmly observes her surroundings.

She is leaning against a thick oak tree, beside a small creek at the foot of a hill. The day is still bright, but the sun has paled and its golden rays no longer beat down on the planet's surface. The afternoon had just waned to evening skies.

She tries to gather her thoughts yet realizes that her recollection of the previous few hours is almost nonexistent, too blurred to be considered distinguishable memories. However, she manages to note that this wasn't the same spot where she had fainted.

Her eyes drift back lazily to the flowing creek. She quietly watches as the crystal-clear liquid glistens silver in the last vestiges of light, passively staring as it babbles and brims forth over slick faces of moss-covered rock. Her eyes and ears continue to observe its ceaseless course and hear its gentle murmurings, enraptured by its glimmering depths and appreciative of its utter emptiness—

She feels a tap on her right shoulder and jerks out of her daze. Glancing up to the owner of the finger, her eyes rest upon a ninja dressed in inconspicuous grayish-green. She blinks in confusion as she attempts to identify the man—he seems to be a stranger, but also a familiar face, as if he was someone she had recently met.

"Are you alright?" A low note drifts to her ear. "It seems you fainted from exhaustion."

Pleinair nods slowly in response, accepting the explanation. Although said exhaustion was a direct result of her shocked state, she privately admits to herself. She opens her mouth to ask a question, but she winces as her voice comes out hoarse and cracked.

The ninja peers curiously at her before shaking his head, taking several long strides forward to the bank of the creek. He motions for Pleinair to come over, so she stands and drags her heavy feet to the creek beside him.

"I've tested the waters myself, it's clean freshwater. You need to rehydrate yourself."

She meekly nods again, cupping her fingers as she dips them into the water. After drinking several mouthfuls, she splashed more of the refreshingly cool water on her face. She sighs in contentment.

She turns to face the young man, but he is no longer there. She tosses her head further back—_when did he leave?_—and he sees the man come back with a cloth satchel. _A traveler, then?_ She muses over the answer to her own question. This place was too remote, even for seasoned wanderers. However, she had to admit that this creek was nice place to be. It was calming. Soothing...

The ninja sits back down in his previous spot and silently hands over a wrapped package to her. She accepts it gladly, already able to smell the light wafts of bread and fresh vegetables. She proceeds to settle in a more comfortable position, legs stretched out to prevent them from falling asleep, and begins to pry off the wrapping.

She unwraps it halfway before it falls onto the grass. Her fingers remain frozen in the act of removing the wrapping as she stares down at her fallen food in horror.

It was a Veggie Burger, but was evidently home-made. And the odd rabbit-head shape it came in...she would never—could never—mistake it for anything else in the world.

_A musical call floated down the hallway. "Pleinair, come over for a second!"_

_She immediately patters forth to answer her mother's summons. She reaches the kitchen doorway and peers curiously into the room just as her mother turns her focus away from the counter laden with plates of organic vegetables. Hastily glancing down, Pleinair mentally groans to herself when she sees the stems and roots littered all over the floor. For all of her mother's patience and dutifulness, she certainly was prone to spontaneously creating a whirlwind of chaotic messes. _Perhaps that was why she spent so much time cleaning everyday_, Pleinair muses. But with this degree of trash, she would be forced to help clean the entire place. She released a low, long-suffering sigh at the thought._

_Her mother directs a dazzling smile at Pleinair as she walks over, plate in hand. She stops before her daughter and lowers it while asking, "Want to try some?"_

_Pleinair lifts the oddly shaped burger in her hands with a little frown of curiosity. She raises her head and lifts a quizzical eyebrow. "Bunny-shaped veggie burger?"_

_Her mother grins in return. "Go on," she urges, "how is it?"_

_Pleinair takes another look at the burger—it really does look quite cute—before taking a bite. As she chews, she is pleasantly surprised by the light taste of fresh Spring on her tongue, savoring the combination of soft bread and crisp greens. It was odd, but it worked. She swallowed and gave her mother a happy nod of approval before she wolfed down the rest of the burger._

_Her mother smiled gently and returned to her cooking. That night, they had a simple yet nonetheless lovely feast of home-made Veggie burgers._

With trembling fingers, she picks up her dropped meal and lifts her gaze to meet the slate-haired ninja's. "How—"

Her voice breaks, and she pauses, forcing herself to take in a few calming breaths, before she opens her mouth to speak again. "_Who are you?_"

It comes out sharp and biting, almost accusatory, but she can't help it. She hisses and grinds her teeth together as her body becomes entirely rigid, eyes suddenly darting away from the man before her. She couldn't help it, just as she couldn't help the fresh waves of tears welling up from the depths of crimson orbs. _She simply couldn't help it_, because this man had something made by her mother's kind hands, perhaps the very last thing she left behind before—_that_—so how—_how_ did he get this?

Her mind is fast descending under a heavy torrent of sorrow, of pain, of loss, of anger and confusion and suspicion and—

—and the ninja must have sensed the wild emotions running through her, because he hastily launches into a quick explanation to placate her.

"Warped to some area a couple hills behind here, and I eventually came upon a house. The benevolent lady inside invited me in and gave me a few supplies for my journey."

She calms down as she listens to this ninja's claim, eyes narrowing as if her mind is calculating probabilities, pondering the possibilities. It was something that her mother would do, she grudgingly admits. But that wasn't enough.

"When was this?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

Right before that catastrophe, then. He was either lucky, or...

"You have yet to answer my question," she says icily.

He blinks in response, before seeming to catch on and concede. "The name's Zephyrus. A Shadow Ninja, former body-guard of the Late King. Hannah—she's the Dimensional Gatekeeper—teleported me here when I requested for escape from the Castle."

She muses over this, and gives a small nod of acceptance. As she mulls over his last sentence, she pipes up a question. "Why did you escape from the Castle?"

"The King died three—no," he scratches his head before continuing, "four days ago. Presumably, the news has yet to reach the outskirts, but it is complete chaos in the heart of the Netherworld now." Zephyrus slides a hand across his face as he drearily mutters, "it's complete anarchy back there."

She lowers her head, eyes fixed onto the running creak again. His recount made perfect sense, especially considering the events of the day prior. "It should have reached the residents here." She pauses as her eyes drift closed and she softly whispers, "The news, I mean. We know now. The survivors, if there are any others..."

Pleinair trails off, and she picks up the Veggie Burger as a sad smile graces her lips. She looks at it solemnly before taking a tentative, small bite. It really was a Veggie Burger made by her mother just yesterday. A film of water glazes over her eyes again.

The ninja casts a perturbed, worried look in her direction. "What..." he asks cautiously, as if treading on hot coals. "What do you mean?"

She doesn't look up at Zephyrus again when she replies. "They're dead. Mother too."

And he just stares, stupefied at the bluntness of the comment, of its cruel straightforward simplicity. It was completely unadorned fact, as harsh and barbed as when it had struck her.

He recollects himself, and his voice thankfully sounds even as he asks, "How did it happen?"

She sighs and her hands, which are holding the burger, fall limp in her lap. "Dragons. Fire..." Pleinair helplessly shrugs. She finally turns to Zephyrus as the words suddenly pour from her lips, like a dam unsealed. "I don't know when it started. I was in the woods when it happened. By the time I noticed the screams and came out to the clearing..."

She shudders, and Zephyrus lifts a hand to her shoulder, prepared to tell her to stop. But she shakes her head and continues, "It was horrible. The fire was everywhere, the buildings were completely crushed, and all the villagers were—"

Pleinair collapses with her back against the grass, eyes clenched tightly shut against the flashing memories in her skull. "My mother was there," she says, her voice no more than a whisper. "She was there in the center, casting her healing spells over and over, but it didn't work. There was no way it would, there were so many of them. They all caught on fire." Her breath hitches, teeth gritting together once more as she forces out the next few words between her teeth. "She saw me. She told me to run. And so I—"

"—so you're here now."

"Yes." She looks at her burger, then back again at the ninja who was now taking his turn to stare into the waters. "Thanks for this. According to what you've said, you probably don't have much food to live by right now."

Zephyrus looks to the burger she is waving gently around in her hands. "No, it's nothing. I'm sorry to hear about your mother..." He trails off weakly, the barest traces of a questioning note in his voice.

She cocks an eyebrow, uncomprehending, before she shoots back up in a sitting position and cracks a small embarrassed smile. "Pleinair. Sorry for being so rude just before."

He returns the gesture and shakes his head gently. They fall silent as each set about to finish the simple meal. Minutes slip into hours, the sun sinks below the hills, and the brilliant sunset washes away to a pitch black. Neither of them move an inch from the spot beside the creek.

The darkened surroundings are so peaceful, and it provides a bitter contrast to the frightening roars of flame and vocals from the previous night. Crimson orbs become heavy with moisture, and she tries to stifle a sob as the tears begin to overflow once more.

She thought she had cried enough already. She had even fainted once from the sorrow, so there was no need for—

Zephyrus remains completely silent, still as a weathered boulder. He casts a furtive glance to the softly sobbing child and quickly looks away from her as she frantically wipes the corners of her eyes.

A few more seconds pass of her trying to muffle her crying and him pretending not to hear, before he states in a low voice, "There are tears for things."

She freezes briefly before narrowing the distance between them in a flash, and begins to sob without restraint into the dull green length of his scarf. He awkwardly places a comforting hand on her trembling shoulder, and they remain like that long into the night as all other living beings fall into silence—until the tears run dry, her quivering stops, and she passes out exhausted on the grass once more as sleep finally creeps onto the pair.

The first day passes by.


	3. Chapter 3: disce quasi semper victurus

**Disclaimer:** Disgaea is to Nippon Ichi as AAPA is to me! Okay, just storyline speaking. Disgaea characters will always be Disgaea characters.

**Author's Notes:** So one chapter devoted to Pleinair's whirlwind of emotions, and now we're back onto the task of prepping for the upcoming plot events. In other words, a crash course in evasion for Pleinair.  
...I'm seeing the "..." bubbles appearing over everyone's heads. Please bear with me—the chapter is still mandatory despite how dull it is.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

_—to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter three:**** disce quasi semper victurus vive quasi cras moriturus**

—learn as if always going to live; live as if tomorrow going to die

* * *

"I am heading for the next town. Do you want to come along?"

While the bank of the creek was a nice place to rest and calm nerves, there was nothing besides rolling grass and running water. No fish or other animals in sight. It meant death for those that chose to stay, allured and deceived by the simple beauty of the scenery.

Thus, when Zephyrus and Pleinair woke up under the warm yellow glow of the sun, they immediately went about to freshen themselves up for the new day. After washing her face and rinsing her mouth, the ninja gave her a stick of mint gum.

Rationing. Demons liked to have meals, but they could do without as long as they had an inventory of healing items. Mint gum was one of such things—they came in all sorts now, from candies and desserts to alcohol and elixirs.

She smiles and graciously accepts the gum, then proceeds to answer the question. She replies in the soft, slightly-timid voice that was so characteristic of her up to a day ago. "I'd be glad to, if...if it really is alright with you."

He tilts his head slightly in askance, and Pleinair knows he is wondering about her shy demeanor. But it wasn't a sudden personality change so much as it was a slight revert back to her old persona. She took this as a sign that she was recovering. There was a nagging feeling in the back of her head telling her that no, half of the shyness stemmed from the act of politely accepting the invitation rather than her former timidity, but she brushed those thoughts aside.

Zephyrus doesn't voice the question, face impassive again as he stands on his feet. After all, he probably deduced that this was her real personality rather than the icy sharpness she had shown yesterday, especially since he had met Pleinair's mother before. Instead, he looks away from the sun to the hills of the West. "We should go now. Your mother said that it would take approximately eight days."

She rises from the ground and nods in agreement. In an instant, the two of them accelerate to a speedy dash. The creek shrinks and then disappears from view entirely as they keep running at equal pace, two silent traveling companions, two gusts of wind that stir the weeds at their feet.

They keep up the pace as the sun steadily rises higher and higher until it hangs directly above them, a blinding blaze of gold and orange. Then, for the first time since their dash, Zephyrus opens his mouth to speak. "Your agility is impressive. Have you received training before?"

Pleinair shifts her eyes slightly to look at the ninja to her left. "No..."

They keep dashing, and Zephyrus flashes a surprised yet considering look. He falls silent, and Pleinair begins to think that the conversation had come to an end, short as it was.

"Then I presume you have yet to learn anything about dodging attacks, evasive maneuvers?"

She looks back up from the passing blurs of green. "No," she says again.

He releases a low thoughtful hum, and silence blankets the two of them once more as there ceases to be any other sound besides that of feet lightly trampling over sprightly grass.

Suddenly, he stops entirely, and Pleinair continues to run several paces before she notices and brakes to a stop. She sends an inquiring glance over her shoulder at him as she takes the opportunity to refill her lungs.

"Would you like to?" He inquires.

They set forth again, but this time at a mere walk. Pleinair falls silent as she forges steadily ahead, contemplating the offer. She never thought of honing her speed for practical purposes before, simply using this innate ability for chasing after the rabbits of the old neighboring woods...

She raises her hands and stares critically at the slight limbs. _Thin as twigs_, she thinks, as her eyebrows scrunch together in worry. Fragile wrists that had no muscle to offer support, to be of any use in a direct struggle of strength. She bites her lower lip slightly as she lowers her forearms back down and proceeds to consider her entire petite frame.

It was no good, not like this. If she remained as she was, she wouldn't be able to make it. Idly kicking a pebble of rock, she decided that there really was no choice, if she wished to survive.

Briefly, the despairing eyes of Pleinair's mother flash across her inner mind. She shudders at the recollection as she reflects back to that brief glimpse of the cleric healing everyone over and over again, desperately, vainly—

And then another memory prior—

_They're walking back home from the farmer's market, idly ambling along the dirt road. Suddenly, their eyes catch sight of a middle-aged man standing at the side in the tall grass, a huge wooden crate of fruits and vegetables beside his feet. They notice that the man—raggedly panting as he wipes the perspiration from his prematurely grey hair, muttering low curses under his breath—is putting most of his weight on his left leg. After sharing inquisitive looks, Pleinair and her mother make their way toward the villager._

_Nearer now, they see the __cause for the man's exhausted appearance as they brush the overgrown weeds aside. Pleinair almost drops her satchel of produce in surprise, frightened at the deep gash on the man's right leg and the blood running down, forming a small scarlet puddle at his feet._

_With the calm of a professional, Pleinair's mother sets her bag of vegetables aside and positions one hovering hand before the wound. The weary adult looks panicked at first, but that fades as quickly as it comes when his brain processes the sight of cobalt blue hair that identifies the woman as the Prophet, the local healer. Her hand begin__s to glow, and then soft waves of emerald energy surge forth, ghosting gently over the livid, torn flesh. Pleinair remains at her spot a few steps away, watching in awe as the nasty cut fades before her very eyes. No clots or scars remain—just perfectly smooth skin, as if the man had never suffered such an injury before._

_The man gives a deep bow in gratitude, lifts the heavy crate onto his broad shoulders, and heads off to the village center. Pleinair and her mother resume their walk in the opposite direction._

_When they return home, curiosity finally bubbles over as a young Pleinair tugs at her mother's sleeves and asks, "What was that, momma? His injury disappeared like nothing was ever there! Is it mommy's magic?"_

_She slips out an airy chuckle as she sorts out the ingredients for today's lunch and dinner. "Yes. That was mommy's Heal spell."_

_Pleinair beams up at her mother, and she lightly skips around as she says proudly, "Momma is so strong~!"_

_She lightly ruffles sky-blue hair, and Pleinair stops to peer up at her. "It was low level damage, Pleinair dear." She removes her fingers laced into Pleinair's locks of hair, her eyes __gaining a distant and far-away look._

"_Back in the day, when I had powerful staves and magic orbs..." She shakes her head in a decidedly wistful and fond manner. "Let's put it this way. During my career, I was known as Panacea for my abilities."_

_Pleinair tilts her head in confusion. "Panacea?"_

"_I was able to cure any wound__ or illness, no matter how grave, with my Omega Heal and endless reserves of magical energy," she explains with a wink. "I've become rusty over the years due to neglect, but my current healing magic still suffices for aiding our neighbors."_

She wonders if her mother ever came to regret her retirement, her abandonment of her staff, her magic orbs—perhaps in those final moments, amidst the fiery inferno of those dragons—her ashen face, the feelings of despair and torture, _torture_, reflected in those eyes—

She didn't want to be like that. To feel so helpless and powerless, especially not after her innate speediness was pointed out to her so bluntly. She couldn't be foolish enough to waste her abilities—that would be a mistake which would ensure her own death in such grim times.

There was no reason to reject the offer, and every reason to accept. So looking up once more to her traveling companion, she resolutely nods in response. "I think I need to."

Zephyrus sharp eyes catch her determined gaze, and he returns a curt nod. "Then we'll start immediately as we head towards the town..."

Suddenly, the ninja disappears from sight, and Pleinair comes to a halt as a befuddled expression crosses her face. She doesn't have time to ponder over where he vanished to though, since in the very next moment she finds herself taking hurried steps to the right as she feels a gust of wind from her left. Eyes wide with surprise, she starts at the sight of Zephryus finishing a spin kick right beside where she once stood mere seconds ago.

"Wha—"

But the Shadow Ninja is gone again, and she cranes her neck to scan her surroundings to come up with nothing. Then a shadow blocks the sun from her frame, the area of darkness rapidly growing larger and larger—

_Holy demons of __Netherworld_—

She immediately dives for the grass and rolls away as the ninja lands with a heavy thud at her previous spot, diving kick hitting nothing but patches of wild grass.

"Wait a sec—"

Zephyrus seems to ignore her frantic protests, and charges forward to where she lay on the greens. She hastily stumbles to her feet, narrowly dodging a straight kick, the boot heels inches away from grazing her lower chin.

Determining that speaking would be futile now, Pleinair breaks out in an all-out run in a desperate attempt to place some distance between her and the berserk ninja. But he cuts across her straight trajectory, and she barely keeps in a shriek as she instinctively curls her body, tumbling forwards as she crashes into the carpet of grass to dodge the side kick that was waiting to greet her stomach.

Using the momentum from her roll, she prances up to her feet again to resume her course. Unfortunately, Zephyrus immediately catches up to Pleinair, and she starts to dart sideways and back to dodge the barrage of fists headed her way.

_Stay out of range_—a punch, stumble a couple steps back—_stay out of range_—a left hook, run a few paces back—_just stay out of range_—a swing, whirl to the right—she chants incessantly in her head, _stay out, _out_ of range_—a simple jab—

She prepares to dash back again, but trips over a boulder and falls on her back as a soft yelp escapes her lips. Before she has time to recover and leap back to her feet, she finds herself pinned to the ground, a hand gripped around her delicate throat.

She winces a bit as she looks up to see Zephyrus face, a slight smirk dancing across his features. He removes his hand from its chokehold, and she rubs the back of her head gently as she sits up from the crushed grass.

"Well, your reaction time is as amazing as your raw dexterity," he remarks with amusement. "But I got the impression that I was chasing after a panicky blind rabbit."

Pleinair gets back up to her feet, brushing off the blades of grass on her white gown. She releases an indignant huff as she sends a glare towards the ninja's direction for the comparison.

Zephyrus' smirk widens for a brief moment, before his face regains its apathetic mask as he quickly adjusts himself into lecture mode. "There's a lot more to dodging than simply running wildly out of the attacker's range..."

The wild onslaught of attacks end for the day, and Zephyrus keeps talking as they walk in the direction of the town. The oranges, reds, and purples of the sunset melt into black as Pleinair keeps listening, periodically gulping down refreshing sips of water from her canned drink.

The cool night breeze blows through their hair, and just like that, day two also slips past.

* * *

She wakes up with a yawn below the shade of a dwarfed tree, and Zephyrus tosses another stick of Mint Gum back in her direction.

Today was about the most basic forms of attack. As they march steadily ahead with the sun beating against their backs, Zephyrus demonstrates the simple combat movements of humanoid demons. From straight punches, swings, jabs, elbows, straight-kicks, spin-kicks, to throws and even head butts, he shows her the most common forms of physical attack again and again. By late afternoon, Pleinair memorizes all the motions of such attacks and the coordination of muscles for such movement. How the shoulder rolls down in its joint before abruptly coming back up for a hook. How the kicking foot is first raised, knees tight against the chest, before his standing leg spins on the soles of his foot as his other straightens out, the lower leg, feet rigid and stiffly straight, whipping out like a lash as it swings on the hinge of its knee joint. So on so forth, until she even memorizes the shifts in battle stance that are taken prior to a certain move.

Next are moves with weapons. He picks up a long dead limb of a tree, and wields it like a bamboo staff. He swings it in frenzied arcs as he endlessly twirls it about. Low sweeps aimed at the feet, piercing stabs, downward strikes are all demonstrated in smooth transition from movement to movement. He then proceeds to snap off a shorter portion of the branch, and wields it like a small dagger. He fiddles around with the pretend-blade and then suddenly stabs and swipes at all the air right about her small frame.

The light steadily wanes, and Pleinair quickly picks up the dodging essentials to counter each and every movement as she analyzes the array of attacks. Side-step a forward punch. Block the enemy's elbow so he cannot carry on with the knife's downwards descent. When the situation calls for a step back, when there is the need to weave forwards...

And before they know it, the third day draws to a close.

* * *

Waking up from the bed of soft grass again, another stick of mint gum, a sip from her Garlic Water. They rise to their feet once more as they begin another day's trek West.

Today is the practical application of yesterday's knowledge. Not long into the day, Zephyrus launches into another frenzy of attacks as he spins variants of attacks into a long combo-chain. Pleinair proceeds to dodge again, but in a much more calm and collected manner than two days ago. Eyes narrowed slightly in observation, she gauges the distance of each attack and only makes the smallest of steps to skirt right outside of his range.

When evening comes, Pleinair stops in surprise as she crashes bottom first onto the field. While dodging what was supposed to be a low kick from his front foot, Zephyrus suddenly shifts his maneuvering to sweep the back of her legs with a swinging kick with his back leg.

Fake-outs. As Zephyrus continues with this new dynamic implemented into the dodging game, Pleinair shakily gets up and continues evading as she is forced to take in more data. The drifting of searching eyes, the slightest twitch of a supposedly inactive limb, the mere phantoms of properly-done movements performed as mere feints...

Learning what attacks combo more easily with one another. A kick, a step forward, a side punch, and then the other arm launched out suddenly in a wide arc...from that, she deduces what moves the opponent may use next, and notes what attacks the enemy is prone to committing to.

By the end of the fourth day, she has full grasp of the basic skills in dodging and prediction.

* * *

The next morning is a bit different. Instead of a gentle shake on the shoulder or a call, she wakes up, eyes wide and alert, as she rolls to her side to dodge the heavy stomp of an incoming foot. Then comes the usual gum and Unopened Drink.

"What was that for—"

"Most basic principle of self-defense: Always be on guard."

She quirks her eyebrows as a bemused expression graces her face. "Still, that wasn't exactly the best wake-up call."

Zephyrus lets out a low chuckle before his face becomes serious once more. "Keep heading West. I won't be running beside you for today."

She opens her mouth to ask what he means by that, but the Shadow Ninja vanishes from sight again. He's a bit too good at that, she internally grumbles. Might as well get started on the journey...

An hour of walking alone, and the missing ninja suddenly hurdles from a tree to aim a flying kick at her person. She freezes briefly in surprise before she regains her senses and narrowly dodges the attack. She spins around with full intent to ask what was that for, but is greeted by the sight of vacant air.

"_Always be on guard."_

The words become stuck in Pleinair's mind like a mantra as it is steadily etched into her being, surprise attack after surprise attack. Zephyrus launches towards her aggressively from all angles over the course of the day, geared with the most diverse move set he had ever pelted her way. He attacks incessantly at random time intervals, until surprises are no longer surprises and she would be unfazed if the Shadow Ninja suddenly popped out of the ground to attack her.

The day's training is brought to an end as they reach their stop at evening. Zephyrus sneaks up from behind in preparation for a grab-and-throw technique as Pleinair suddenly bursts forth in a running gait towards the bubbling stream.

"Fish, fish!" She laughs excitedly. "_Real_ food for tonight!"

The fifth day is fast approaching its end, and they have finally arrived at the camp site that Pleinair's mother mentioned to Zephyrus before.

* * *

The remaining days pass in much of the same manner as they scamper and dart past rolling hills. Pleinair quickly picks up on Zephyrus' vanishing game and the dodging practices have a new element added in—hide-and-seek. She learns how to monitor her breathing, to stealthily slip past, so that she seemingly becomes nothing more than the intangible wind.

After days of training, Pleinair no longer simply runs. She dodges. Instead of fleeing, she evades. Rather than hovering timidly in place, she glides with a calm and smooth precision. She trades a shy presence for one that can appear and disappear at will, one that she has full control over.

Beautiful shades of orange, red, and soft purple tint the vast sky before them. Looking down from the hill, they finally see the town that they have been making their way to this passing week.

As predicted, it is the eighth day of their journey, and they are finally here.

* * *

**A/N:** Phew! That was difficult. I've realized that I'm horrible at action scenes. Days six, seven, and eight have been cut and summarized for everyone's sanity. I hope I didn't kill anyone with this upload. ^^;;


	4. Chapter 4: graviora manent

**Disclaimer:** This broken record of a person would just like to state, once again, that Disgaea belongs to Nippon Ichi Software.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

_—to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter four: graviora manent**

—heavier things remain

* * *

They steadily make their way down the hill until rolling greens give way to cobbled streets. As they peer about, their eyes spot a small wooden sign driven crookedly into the roadside dirt with a stake.

"Welcome to Sunset Town!"  
—the quaint refuge in Hell

Pleinair looks on with skeptical eyes. "Does that mean the residents here are friendly, or are they being sarcastic?"

Zephyrus scans the buildings in sight, low wooden structures with thatched roofs covered in hay. "No twisted spires or dark towers...They should be decent. Relatively speaking." Architecture, after all, was an art form, and art reflected the personalities of both its creator and possessor. Usually. _Hopefully_.

Pleinair squares her shoulders and steps forward. No point in hesitating now. Together, she and her traveling companion pass the welcoming sign to enter the small town.

The hour grows late, and warm rays of burnished gold slant and recede as the sun carries on with its descent for the day. Sunset Town, despite its name, seems rather quiet and peaceful during this time. Only a few locals cast curious glances at them before casually shrugging and moving on to attend to their own affairs.

Apparently, Zephyrus finds what he had come here to seek soon enough, because he quickly taps Pleinair on the shoulder before steering her to the left corner of the cobbled path. Situated at the turn of the street is a simple, yet nonetheless classy shop made out of lumber. Hanging above the door, she notes, is a simple red sign with the words "Rosen Queen" written in bold cursive strokes.

They step past the threshold and a tinkle is heard from the bell above that signals their entrance. Behind the store counter, a brunette decked out in green and silver armor pokes her partner's carelessly exposed side, causing the blue-haired girl to leap from her sprawled position with a low hiss. The curly locks of hair bounce at the back of her head as she adjusts the thick belt around her waist.

"I was having my_ beauty sleep_, you dodo, you ridiculous knight! Sympathize with a woman and her need for rest after a hard day's worth of work—you _are_ one, right? Was there any reason in particular why you—Oh-welcome-how-do-you-do-do-you-want-to-take-a-look-at-our-wares?"

Pleinair openly goggles at the archer, impressed with her quick switch from an angry rant to a store greeting, but even more thoroughly taken aback by her long breath. Zephyrus lightly—_very lightly_—coughs. And the Rune Knight that was addressed sends a quick glare at her fellow shopkeeper before rolling her eyes in slight exasperation. In an attempt to salvage the situation, and make what the archer just said comprehensible, she says, "Welcome to Sunset Town's branch of Rosen Queen. She—" the knight gestures to the huffy blue-haired archer, "is in charge of the Weapons Sector, whereas I am in charge of the Battle Depot." She takes in one breath before she finishes. "Feel free to take a look at our wares."

Pleinair's feet remain pinned in place at the doorway as her befuddled expression remains. In contrast, Zephyrus is quick to recover and go about with business. Stepping forth to the shop interior, he makes his way towards the knight. "May I see your stock of healing items?"

"Of course," she says, opening a cabinet behind her and lifting swollen bags of goods on the counter. "We have the most basic foods such as candies, garlic water, and sake..."

The storekeeper drones on as she introduces each product to her customer, and Pleinair begins to automatically tune her out. The archer also seems to be confronted with the adversary of boredom as she plunks her head onto the table with a dull thud. Within a matter of seconds, Pleinair dully observes, the girl that was so energetic moments ago is now softly snoozing once again. Yes, that befuddled face wasn't going to vanish anytime soon.

Pleinair turns her head to the side as she peers back out to the reddish glow of the setting sun. She doesn't note that Zephyrus has finished restocking for further travels, nor does she note the fading of voices as business is brought to a close.

"Pleinair—" the Shadow Ninja begins, and Pleinair's head jerks back attentively in his direction. But just then, he blinks and pauses in mid-step as if he forgot something at the counter. Wheeling back to the knight, he makes another request as Pleinair looks on with faint curiosity. "Do you have a shoe inventory?"

"Well, yes," the brunette blinks several times before shifting to one of the crates in the back corner. "Admittedly, we don't have much though. There's no steady supply of demand, so we only keep a box of three kinds."

The Shadow Ninja looks into the crate and picks out a pair of Ninja Shoes from the middle of the pile. He then buries one hand in his pockets and withdraws what looks like a small, white symbol—Pleinair can't identify what it is—and places it beside the pair of shoes on the counter.

"Do any of you have abilities akin to the Item World Gatekeeper?"

The brunette scrunches her eyebrows and her lips turn to a small frown as she shakes her head side-to-side. "Unfortunately, no—there's no one with such powers to match except the one in the Castle—"

The knight is interrupted by a kick to her leg. She looks down at the offending boot before raising her level of vision to see the archer, still lying on the table, head twisted to the side.

"I'm sure _she_ can, idiot. If it's something simple like a Specialist transfer."

The brunette continues to stare blankly until the archer raises herself from the chair with a heavy sigh and stalks off to the back room. Slapping her hand to her face as realization dawns, she turns back to her patiently waiting customer. "What do you need in particular?"

"Just as the archer said," he confirms with a slight nod. "There's a Specialist I want to transfer from this Imperial Seal to the Ninja Shoes."

Pleinair finally moves from her spot and strides forward to Zephyrus' side. She remains silent, but the curiosity and confusion swimming about in her eyes is all too apparent as she proceeds to have a stare-down with the two articles on the counter.

The knight wheels about on her feet as she calls to the back. "Just a Specialist transfer! Make her come out!"

"I'm on it, I'm on it," the archer drawls as she twirls one blue-lock with her finger. "Ta-da, here she is, our little Item Mage."

A green-haired girl donned in a cutesy outfit of lace and frills steps out from the shadows. Nonchalantly flipping her hair back, she pushes past the knight and glances down at the two items on the counter.

"The Statistician from the Imperial Seal," he jabs a finger to the insignificant-looking white piece, "to the Ninja Shoes." His fingers jerk to the footwear.

She gives a curt nod and taps on the Imperial Seal with a gnarled staff of polished wood. Pleinair watches curiously as a white glow comes from her staff, and a circle inscribed with runes appears from below the Seal. She closes her eyes as she focuses on searching through the medium. "An Imp by the name of Helen, yes?" He nods. "Wow," she smiles softly as she continues, "A strong one, isn't it? This Statistician."

She falls silent once again, quickly rapping the Seal lightly with another two taps. A glowing orb of white gently swims out of the item and begins to whirl about the end of her staff. Quickly, the Green Mage adjusts her staff to hover over the Ninja Shoes. Another three taps, on this item now, and the fluttery orb spirals down into the shoes before fading with a soft glimmer. "All done," she remarks, and immediately whirls about to return to the domain of her back room.

Zephyrus mutters a low word of thanks before setting a coin pouch upon the store counter. Grabbing his newly bought items, he spins around to head back out the entrance, Pleinair silently trailing behind.

* * *

They walk in silence as they step back onto the cobbled path. Silence wasn't anything unusual between them. When he wasn't tutoring her, Pleinair soon figured out that Zephyrus was just as introverted as she was. But there was something odd going on now. Her gut is twisting in nervous knots, their pace seems to be an odd fraction slower than usual, and the dull _klunk klunk_ of the young ninja's boots sound heavier than his normal footfalls. She is about to dismiss the feelings as a result of frazzled nerves—after all, she had just experienced a training regime in which Zephyrus grilled her to the bone, it would be no wonder if her abused senses were acting oddly from functioning overtime—when they suddenly halt as Pleinair bumps into his back. Rubbing her nose, she realizes that they have walked right back to the town's entrance.

"Wha-what—?" She splutters. "We just arrived here Zephyrus, why—"

And when he turns stiffly—so stiffly—to face her, she knows that her senses had never failed. That there was something undeniably wrong.

"I plan to continue journeying immediately."

She couldn't fathom his impatience and eagerness to set out once again, but there was nothing horrendously wrong with the decision. "Alright. A day's rest here would be nice, but it isn't actually necessary." Maybe he was feeling thrifty.

But that isn't the issue. Zephyrus shakes his head and he tightens the grip on his satchel, knuckles completely white and drawn out. "I..." He pauses, biting his lower lip once before his eyes flutter closed and he schools his face to impassiveness. When his eyes reopen, they directly lock onto Pleinair's. "I intend to go alone."

Silence.

Oh. A brief sensation of something lancing across her chest, and she winces slightly in pain. "Oh." She casts her glance sideways as she wedges the heel of one foot into the ground. Stay grounded. One breath. Two. Alright, enough. She opens her mouth to speak again. "Right. Sorry. That's fine...that's fine."

He stoops down slightly to match Pleinair's height as he squeezes her right shoulder in...reassurance? She looks up, and sees his eyes furrowed ever-so-slightly, as if in sadness or pain. It was a brief flicker of emotion that would have been overlooked by anyone else.

"This town seems like a good place. It isn't home, but you can settle down here."

"...True." _Not true_. It was a lie, and they both knew it. Completely wishful thinking. Naivety. An illusion of peace, only to be suddenly torn to shreds. If even her village fell, Pleinair did not doubt for a second that Sunset Town would also feel the ripples of chaos. It was only a matter of time.

Zephyrus turns to the side, and grabs the clothed bag the Ninja Shoes were stored in. "Here," he says as he plops the bag on top of her head. "For you."

And that was why he was giving her such a thing, right? Something to help prepare her for when she needed to embark on her own journey. Lifting the bag from her head and hugging it close to her chest, she murmurs a soft word of thanks.

Zephyrus smiles slightly at this. "One last lesson." Pleinair's head shoots back up in curiosity.

"The Specialist transfer you just witnessed." He pauses, and Pleinair nods as she drags out the memory from her bank of recent recollections. "Within most items lay dormant residents at various levels of power—the good ones are called Specialists. Those of certain roles, however, will only grant their abilities upon the item's user after it has been awakened. And Specialists must be awakened in order to be freely transferred from item to item. Think of them as spirits tied to a medium.

"It is important to upgrade your gear whenever opportunity arises, but never forget to transfer any Specialists out before you sell off the old one. The Statistician is one that will heighten the user's senses and intuition so that the most can be gained from each and every experience."

Pleinair drinks in the information. "Helen," she recalls the voice of the Green Mage as she said that name. "Statisticians help drive the user up the learning curve at an unnatural pace." Zephyrus nods. ""So that means...Helen is like an invisible, silent trainer." No—she shakes her own head for the inadequate comparison. The Specialist doesn't provide the experiences or lessons. It just gives a mental boost in the process of absorbing knowledge and insight. "More like...some form of learning muse."

His lips twitch into a small smile at her quick comprehension. "Go ahead and equip them."

Pleinair nods. She procures the Ninja Shoes and sets them down on the dirt-coated stones. Hopping out of her worn pair of white cloth shoes, she immediately dons the brown-colored pair.

"Shoes enhance strength and movement. The Statistician—Helen—will also aid you in developing your greatest strength." He squeezes her shoulder once again. "Good luck."

She lowers her gaze back to the ground, fists clenching and then unclenching. This is it. "You too."

She resolutely lifts her head back up again after a sharp intake of breath. She wasn't going to say her goodbyes with her eyes glued to the cobbled path. She owed the Shadow Ninja that much, at the very least. "Good luck. And thanks for everything. I really, really, appreciate it."

He ruffles her hair gently before his eyes dart away to the town entrance. "Live. Pleinair, survive the Hours," he says solemnly.

"...Hours?"

"Ah. In the three days before I left the Castle, the term was already established. Hours...refers to the time we're in now, after the Overlord's death. The new era."

"I see," she trails off, before picking up her faltering voice. "You mustn't die either." The corners of her lips draw up to a small smile. "If I manage to survive, then you have no excuse not to."

Zephyrus smirks slightly at this, and takes his first step out of town. Pleinair shifts her entire weight back to her shoe heels, forcibly chaining the sudden urge to dash forward and drag him back in. "Farewell."

"...Goodbye."

A gust of wind, and he is gone.

_Goodbye._

* * *

She ambles along the pathway, taking slow steps as she walks back into Sunset Town. Her new shoes make a constant beat of soft thumping sounds against the worn stones embedded into the pavement.

It left a bad taste in her mouth, the thought of staying here in peace. Not that there was anything wrong with the town. The locals here completely ignored her, the traveling stranger, for the most part as they idly chattered and bantered with companions. Much like the two shopkeepers back in Rosen Queen. It must be a characteristic of the townspeople, Pleinair mused. It was different from the quiet that reigned constantly back in her former village, this constant stream of murmurs and tinkling laughter, but it gave off the same pleasant feeling of peace. Regardless—they respected her solitude and left her to her own thoughts as she continued to ghost down the streets.

Perhaps...perhaps it was because this place was too close to her ravaged home. She couldn't be content, knowing full well that a couple hills East, there was the remnants of her village to haunt her. Moreover...the Hours...they would certainly affect this town too.

It was only a matter of time.

She could enjoy the serene, carefree atmosphere as long as it lasted. But she was uncomfortable with the idea of being lulled into a false sense of security. She wasn't even sure if she wanted the brief respite from her private suffering. Zephyrus probably thought it was best for her too. Yet she didn't know if she could _have_ that respite. Her mind would surely torture her with the memories of loss if the outside world ceased to threaten her. A shiver coursed through her spine at the thought.

The past several days, she had Zephyrus there to anchor her. And the training was a good distraction. By nightfall of each day, she had collapsed and slipped into slumber so easily, fatigued from dodging and evading attacks throughout the entire course of the day. Now, that was gone, so she was left to her own devices in this town.

She knew she was lucky to have met him. But it was enough. She wouldn't be burdening Zephyrus anymore. She had his teachings to push herself forward.

The only question now was where to.

* * *

She may as well find a place to rest for the night. Not that she had any idea where to go, really. Just then, though, she spots a wooden building that looks to be approximately seven stories tall. It was obviously the largest one in Sunset Town.

Her gaze slides up to a sign hanging from the ledge above the door. In thick, neatly printed lettering, the wooden sign painted with a red-orange gradient states proudly, "SUNSET INN".

Well. There was the slight issue of her not having any Hell to rent a room but...she could figure that part out later. First thing to do was to scope the premises, so she hopped into the entrance without the slightest traces of hesitation.

The first floor was set up as a tavern of sorts, Pleinair deduces from the smell of alcohol permeating the air and empty jars of sake scattered across several tables. Apparently, judging by the crowded state of the room, it was also the evening center of activity for the local populace. Their attention seemed to be focused further in towards the direction of the bar though. Evening her breaths and muting her muffled footsteps, she slinks through the crowd and sidles against a wall near the counter. Her presence remains undetected as she watches the scene unfurling before her.

In the figurative spotlight is one motley crew. A male priest hovers nervously, back against the counter. To his left is a Blue Skull, alcohol dribbling messily down his front as he chugs down what is apparently his third jar of the evening. To the priest's right is a Red Mage seated cross-legged, long ruby-red fingernails tapping incessantly against the countertop. Her expression is one of disdain as she sneers at the final member of the unlikely ensemble—a blue Prinny. A Prinny that was currently waving its flippers wildly about as it rocked from one peg-leg back to another. There were three more fidgeting in place behind the aforementioned one.

"Dood, we _saw_ it! A red glow far away!"

"So? What is this 'red glow', exactly?"

"DANGER!"

"Haha—" Hic. "Pink lights..." Hic.

"Umm. The Prinny said red, not pink."

"I swear upon my weekly trout, dood! Red! FIRE!"

"Mmmhmm. Good job, scout. Brilliant report."

"DOOD—"

"Hey, be more serious now, guys..."

"Heat." Hic. "Hotness...eheheh—" Hic.

"The East the EAST!"

"There's nothing to burn there, you pea-brai—"

Pleinair's eyebrow twitch slightly at the unfinished remark.

Hic. "Don't interrupt—" Hic. "—a story bout—" Hic. "Hot babes—"

"Are you _implying_ that I'm a—"

"Dood! This could affect our LIVES—"

"Calm dow—"

"You drunk piece of batshit insane—"

"FIRE!"

Hic. "You're noisy—"

"_Reporting serious news here, dood?_"

"Treant-headed, fouler-than-undead meat pile of shitty poop-wiping rags—"

"Let's cut the vulgarities—"

"Damn faeries are—" Hic. "More attractive than—" Hic. "Wannabe—" Hic. "Succubus—"

"_SILENCE!_"

"—...down..."

Thump. Crack. _Crash_.

Silence.

"..."

Standing beside the party is a new arrival, a young Bushi outfitted in white bandages and red-violet pants. The brunette's high ponytail continues to swish in its violent arc. Before her, a wooden table is split into two jagged halves, one fallen portion still pierced by a giant blade.

She kicks the table as she pulls out the sword, shattering the table half into more wooden splinters in the process. She swings the blade gracefully in the air until she holds a certain frightened Prinny at glistening point of cold metal.

"Calmly give a full report of your scouting expedition," she commands darkly. Seeing the poor Prinny sweat bullets, she adds as an afterthought, "and articulate yourself clearly."

The poor Prinny gulps audibly before stuttering out, "Y-ye—yester-day..." The point of her sword comes closer to his forehead. Stiffening up, the Prinny blurts out his story. "Yesterday, when we scouted at the top two hills away from the East yesterday night, we saw an unnatural glow in the distance, dood! It was a small flickering, and glowing reddish-orange. The woods in the East must be on fire!"

Yesterday? Pleinair thought it was odd that Zephyrus and her didn't come across the Prinny crew. Then again, they were training, and the whole area was hill after hill.

The Bushi gives the Prinny a considering look before twirling her sword and sheathing it at her back. "I see," the brunette mutters. "Is that all?"

The squadron of Prinnies salute her. "Yes, Miss Sakura!"

"Pathetic," the Red Mage hisses as she keeps her eyes locked on her varnished nails. "They didn't even have the guts to look into the situation."

"It...could have just been a wildfire," the Male Cleric muses, as he rests his chin upon one hand.

Pleinair deduced as much from the argument beforehand, but she nods to herself slightly as this information is confirmed again. She hesitates briefly, but what is there to lose? Unmasking her presence, she makes herself known to the gathering as she steps forth from her position against the tavern wall.

"It wasn't a wildfire. The weather isn't dry enough for those yet," she whispers softly, as the room descends into another wave of shocked silence.

The drunk Skull turns a bleary eye in her direction. "Huh?"

"To the East, there lies the remnants of a village burnt into cinders seven days ago," she continues. "The outskirts of the woods must have been caught in the blaze, which resulted in the distant flames these Prinnies must have sighted."

The Bushi—Sakura—settles her intense gaze on Pleinair. "And it was an intentional crime."

She tilts her head a bit to the left, a few bangs falling across her vision. "Yes."

Sakura's eyes narrow. "...And the one's responsible?"

"A swarm of Dragons." She further elaborates, "Some were reddish orange with yellow patterns. The others were yellow with periwinkle streaks."

The Male Cleric speaks up again, even more gravely than before. "Nidhoggs and Ahzi Dahakas."

The atmosphere becomes tense, heavy, and notably more somber than before. Steadily holding Pleinair's gaze, the brunette takes a moment to digest this news. Then, turning sharply, she addresses Pleinair again. "Come with me."

She nods and steps forward, leaving the crowd of dampened spirits behind her.

Once they reach the confines of the back room, Sakura voices her thoughts again. "You came from that village, didn't you? Were you..."

Understanding what she means to ask, Pleinair bows her head in confirmation. "..Ah. As far as I'm aware, I'm the only survivor."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She wearily sighs before giving a gentle shake of her head. There was no need for such an apology. Sakura did nothing wrong and...and she was fine. She gripped the hem of her skirt as she repeated the thought in her head again. She was _fine_. She could manage.

The Bushi's eyes dart off to the wooden floorboards as silence reigns between the two. Several minutes pass before the brunette speaks up again. "I'm the town leader, and am in charge of Sunset Inn."

Not seeing where she is heading with this tangent, Pleinair merely nods to affirm that she is listening attentively.

"It may be cruel of me to say, but I don't want Sunset Town to end up like your home."

"No," she cocks an eyebrow. The brunette was either paranoid of offending others, or believed her to be hyper-sensitive. It was a bit ludicrous that she'd take offense for such a thing. "Of course not."

Sakura pauses, and when she speaks again, the hesitance is gone from her voice. "There are also two other villages in this region." Locking her determined eyes with Pleinair's, she continues with a note of authority lacing her words. "I wish for you to report this urgent news to the neighboring villagers."

Both of Pleinair's eyebrows are rising to her hairline now. She remains quiet, and Sakura clenches her sword handle briefly in discomfort, taking her silence as an unwillingness to comply.

"I mean," she hastily explains. "You have first-hand experience, so you are the one who can give the truest recount of the events. The Nidhoggs and Ahzi Dahakas must still be circling the skies of this area." Her gaze turns desperate, her voice wavering slightly as it becomes more pleading. "We live in the outskirts of the Netherworlds, and usually have no need to keep our guard up. But the Hours are different, and our villages need to stick together for hope and survival. Please consider. It may end up only being a day or two in advance, but any warning is better than nothing. We...even if our defenses are easily crushed, at least—at least, we could have a greater chance of survival. Every small factor counts!"

It was true. If they wanted any chance, they needed to prepare. Her village had not been blessed with such a thing, but the others could entertain the possibility of survival. And with her speed, she had every chance to reach the villages before those Dragons did.

Pleinair turns her head to the side as she ponders over this. Just as Zephyrus had helped her, she could aid them by shouldering the responsibility of messenger. However, it meant immediate departure from Sunset Town. Any hopes of settling down and re-establishing herself would be dashed to pieces.

But...but as comforting a town as it was, she wasn't keen on staying here in the first place. As she currently was, she was most afraid with the thought of nothing to preoccupy herself over. Her loss was still too recent, and the sadness was threatening to engulf her anytime. She had to keep moving.

"I beg of you. _Please_, uhm—"

...And with this task, she could improve their chances by a slight margin. It was something to do. A mission. A purpose. A...distraction from her own pain.

"Pleinair. My name's Pleinair."

Sakura's face, tense with worry, immediately relaxes again. Pleinair smiles softly at this. "I'll accept, but I have conditions."

"What are they?"

"Well, I have no Hell, no supplies to set off on such a journey." She shrugs her shoulders as a weak attempt at nonchalance. "There's not much to be salvaged in a raging inferno."

The brunette grimaces slightly at the dark humor. "Don't worry, I'll handle all of that. I'll send the Prinnies over to Rosen Queen and pay for it myself. After all, I'm the one requesting this of you." She furrows her eyes and taps her foot against the floor as she thinks. "Also...I'll provide you with a map that shows the route to those two villages. Oh, and two letters for you to pass onto each of the village leaders, so they won't overlook your warning."

Pleinair nods in satisfaction.

Sakura paces to the door back to the tavern, but whirls around at the doorframe. "I forgot! I'll have the Prinny maids weave several sets of clothing for you. Will copies of your current outfit do?"

She blinks in surprise at this, and her smile widens into a more genuine one. "Yes. Thank you so much."

"No problem," the brunette winks at her. Pulling a silver key from the loop on her white sash, Sakura tosses it towards Pleinair. "Third floor, room 306. Rest up for tonight; you must've had a weary journey here."

Pleinair catches the key and walks forward to the door too. "I'll be going up now then."

They exchange quick good-byes before parting their separate ways. Pleinair climbs the wooden staircase located at the entrance to the inn and makes her way to the third floor. Stopping before a copper plate inscribed with the numbers "306", she inserts the key and twists it until a soft click is heard.

Closing the door behind her, Pleinair quickly scans the simple yet cozy room lain before her. Heavy red drapes framed the windows, and the walls were painted a warming color of beige. She immediately dashes to the bathroom and revels in the water as it washes away over a week's worth of grime and dirt.

Clean and refreshed, she tosses the wet towel to the cushioned chair and collapses onto the fluffy white bed. _Finally_, a good night's worth of rest.

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of a soft knock on her wooden door. Groggily rubbing her eyelids, Pleinair pulls herself up from the soft blankets and moves to get the door.

"Good morning," Sakura calls gently. "I've prepared everything."

Pleinair steps aside to let her in, and she proceeds until she is right beside the unmade bed, spilling all the supplies in her hands onto the mattress.

"Here, in this satchel are all the food, drinks, and medical supplies. It's best used sparingly; I didn't get much because it would be better to travel lighter. The fresh linens are in this bag. I made sure the Prinnies got the outfits exactly right"

"Also, here." She tosses a cape of cobalt silver towards Pleinair. "It's a Dimension Cape that boosts defense and speed slightly. There are chances you may encounter other monsters, so always wear it just incase. Besides, it gets a bit chilly at Badre."

Pleinair nods as she pulls out one set of clothes and the cloak. She would change into them later.

"Finally," Sakura pulls out 3 parchment scrolls from the items bag. "This—" she unfurls the sealed one. "Is the map."

Pleinair steps behind the Bushi to take a closer look.

"I've drawn out the route in red ink. Head over to the Village of Beast first. They're a town of female brawlers. Give this—" She raises a scroll with a red seal on, "—to the leader. She's a Female Black Belt. You can't miss her lime green hair."

Pleinair furrows her brow in concentration as she memorizes these directions. "Okay. Then the next one?"

"From there, make your way through this icier territory," she directs as she traces a finger around the curving line of red. "The all-female society of Badre is an ice mountain village of archers. Give this blue-sealed letter to the Elder. She's a pink-haired Striker."

"Understood. I'll prepare real quick and set out immediately."

"Wait, one last thing." Pleinair refocuses her gaze onto Sakura. "At the edge of the map here," she points to a spot marked with a red X. "The rocky regions here have underground cave villages, home to the striders. Mineral Caverns is right there. Once you're done, you may choose to head over there as your next destination."

"Okay. Thanks."

Sakura rises from her crouched position at the foot of the bed. "I'll be downstairs. Have some breakfast before you go."

She beams a soft smile towards the Bushi. "Alright, wait for me."

* * *

The sun is just beginning to make its ascent into the blindingly white skies. Pleinair stands at the entrance to Sunset Town, two bags slung over her shoulders. She is decked out in a crisp and cleaner version of her previous wardrobe, and the cape she donned is whipping around her in the morning wind.

She takes one step forward, and her Ninja Shoes kick a stray pebble as she walks out from the town's perimeters. Pleinair takes in one deep breath, before she bolts into a lightning dash.

It was a race. Miles behind her, the Dragons were still moving.


	5. Chapter 5: alis volat propriis

**Disclaimer:** I've logged 350 hours on Disgaea DS, but that doesn't make it mine. Boohoo.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter five: alis volat propriis**

—she flies with her own wings

* * *

She runs toward and pumps her legs over the first ring of hills without hitch. On the other side, the land becomes noticeably more barren and rocky, the ground less slippery as there is no more morning dew from the grass to threaten her footing. The wind on this side is much drier as it blows across her face, making her Dimensional Cape flutter behind like a silver-blue streamer. Pleinair takes advantage of the new landscape, her footfalls becoming heavier as she accelerates even faster and speeds past the declining patches of yellow-green grass.

The sky is still a hazy white, the earthen valley echoes in silence, and Pleinair presses on.

* * *

She reaches the summit of one craggy hill, the dirt below her feet cracked and dusty. Overhead, the sky is a midnight blue, the clouds a charcoal black, resembling puffs ands stretches of light-blocking smog.

Pleinair comes to a halt, debating on whether she should continue on or call it a day. She walks a few more paces, peers down, and sees darkness rather than ground. Deciding it'd be best to resume traveling when there is light to see by, she huddles below a large wall of rock to rest for the night.

She doesn't light a fire for warmth. Fire is a signal that travels far, and she cannot afford to alert the lurking, flying enemies of her presence.

It is a while longer before her alert ears pick up the rustling of cloaks that do not belong to her. Pleinair slows to a stop and immediately dives behind a large boulder as she peers down from the precipice, scanning the sloping lands below for signs of life with narrowed crimson eyes.

"_There are chances you may encounter other monsters, so always wear it just incase."_

She unconsciously fists a handful of cobalt blue cloth, pulling the fabric tightly around her frame. Down below, she sees the source of those rustling sounds that were carried by the wind. Six cloaked figures in green hobble aimlessly around the level part of the landscape. Pleinair shivers a bit as she sees the cloaks ripple in the wind, but no silhouettes of their bearers. She gets back up from her crouching position, and nimbly darts to another boulder a hundred meters down. As she squints, she notices that the cloaked figures _do_ have bodies—translucent, pale, wispy trails of white. One of them tilts their head up, hood falling back, and Pleinair catches sight of two beady obsidian eyes before she darts behind the boulder that completely obscures her from view.

Ghosts.

"_I think, if you do come across monsters, it'll most likely be of the Spirit Class." Zephyrus taps his forefinger against his chin in thought. "Regardless, it is the same. As ghosts, they are more sensitive to auras, drawn to emotions such as fear._

"_Remember the breathing exercises. The key to stealth is to remain completely calm. Observe your surroundings, take advantage of the field. Move fluidly like a shadow through trees, boulders, and ditches—become a specter of Nature, and you will avoid detection."_

Pleinair places a hand over her quivering heart. Breathe. In. Out. In, out. In and out.

Her gaze rolls over the surrounding slopes and the valley down below. There is no foliage to provide any cover, but the craggy, uneven land would be more than enough. From their positions down below, the Ghosts would have no way of seeing her if she remained in the natural trenches marring these hills. It would take longer than cutting a straight line through the lands, but it was most certainly safer.

Her breath even and her heart stilled, Pleinair gracefully hops from her hiding spot and ducks behind a jutting rock wall, taking her slight detour left. She keeps in mind to move without sound, yet never ceases in her haste.

* * *

The wind comes gusting over from behind. Harsh, strong, furious. Agitated.

_Hurry_, the wind seems to call as it threatens to send her falling face-forward with its overbearing force.

_Hurry_.

And Pleinair, she whispers back, "Soon."

_I'm coming._

She doesn't stop to pull out her map; urgency has long since sharpened her mind. The route is memorized.

_Just a while longer. I'm almost there._

Almost, almost there.

* * *

Over another crest of hills, she sees a small settlement sprawled along the wide ridge of the opposing hill. It is surrounded by a sturdy stone wall, and small-moving figures—fighters, Pleinair deduces—stand sentinel along the barrier at regular distances. Constant surveillance and vigilance aside, the village is quiet, restful. Undisturbed.

Well, that will soon change, Pleinair thinks as she moves forth, making the final dash across this stretch of land. She would be bringing the Village of Beast some ominous news.

But that, no matter how terrifying and worrisome, is infinitely superior to having no indication at all. So, as she ignores the burning, tingly sensation coursing through her muscles as she runs, there is not the faintest wisp of hesitancy to slow her down.

She covers the distance in minutes, and beckons to the dozing woman with bubble-gum pink hair.

"I seek audience with your Village leader."

The female fighter standing guard before the entrance cocks a pink eyebrow, lazy eyes shifting to scan the thin girl before her. "What business do you have with our leader?"

"I have an urgent message to give her," Pleinair forces out between breaths. She pauses momentarily, letting her lungs catch up, before adding on, "I'm from Sunset Town. Sakura—she's the town's leader—sent me here."

The guard blinks a couple times, lips quirking to a small frown, as if she is pondering over what to do. Pleinair holds her searching gaze steadily—after all, she has no reason to feel nervous. "Well, you don't look like you're capable of doing much harm," the fighter states bluntly. "Let me check the contents of your bag."

She does so, releasing the drawstrings and tugging at the rim of her closed satchels. The guard gives them a brief, cursory examination before nodding to herself. She calls over her shoulder:

"Jean! We have an outsider who wants to see the leader! Make sure she doesn't get lost, or run free in our village, or something."

Behind the stone edifice, someone shouts back an "I'm coming!" Seconds later, another female martial artist appears from another post.

The pink-haired guard turns back, shrugs, leans against the wall. "Welcome, I guess," she intones flatly, "follow the green-clad blonde, and she'll take you to your destination."

The Pugilist pulls down a lever at the side, and the grating screech of rusted hinges assaults Pleinair's eardrums as the wooden gates slide open. She and her guide step forward, as the guard pushes the creaking doors shut again behind them.

The path is made of uneven stone, many of the giant slabs of rock so loose that they shift and rattle as they are stepped on. The blonde moves swiftly and assuredly with each step, her footwork light and smooth. Pleinair is certain that if it were not for her own nimbleness, she would have been quickly left behind in the dust, to stumble and trip over rickety stones.

But she does have the speed to match and keep up, so within half an hour, they arrive at the opposite end of the gates. A tower guarded by a duo of Pugilists stands before them. They nod to Pleinair's escort, move back their crisscrossing spears, and enter the tall door of thick, ancient wood.

They step inside to be greeted by a completely vacant lobby. Pleinair blinks at the reception. (Or lack thereof.)

"Ha! Hyeah! Eeeyah!"

Pleinair blinks.

She swings slightly to the left, and sees a woman in black kicking and punching thin air with amazing vigor. She is shimmering with a sheen of sweat, beads rolling and dripping down from her bangs.

Lime green bangs.

Aha. Pleinair blinks again, this time in recognition. This woman must be—

"Leader," the Pugilist calls as she bows deeply. "A messenger from Sunset Town seeks your attention."

"Oh?" The Black Belt's head tilts to the side. "This little girl here?"

The escort nods in confirmation, before stepping away. "I will wait outside to bring her back to the gates."

The leader waves lazily at her retreating back, and then her gaze drops back down to Pleinair. "So. Your business?" She turns to the side with a disgruntled expression, muttering something Pleinair evidently wasn't meant to be able to hear. "Stupid kid. This better be good, totally messing with my training rhythm."

Pleinair opts to pretend she never heard that last line. Swinging her burlap sack to her front, she pulls out the scroll closed with a red seal. "This is from Miss Sakura, the town leader." She pauses, bites her lower lip before tacking on, "It's urgent."

The Black Belt raises an incredulous eyebrow, extracting the scroll from Pleinair's hands and then promptly tossing it carelessly to the side. The flung scroll knocks against the far wall before bouncing off and rolling abandoned on the floor.

Pleinair's eyes widen briefly before narrowing at the one she is supposed to inform. "That," she points her forefinger to the forlorn message scroll, "really is important. Please read it."

An arrogant toss of the head, lime green hair swinging out of eyes as the leader sends a condescending smirk her way. "And why should I bother, kid? Training, keeping fit—now _that_ is pretty damn important. What'll hurt if I leave the paper for later? It won't disappear on me."

"Because," Pleinair replies dryly, "by the time you bother checking, it might be already too late."

The Black Belt rolls her eyes. "Yeah, uh-huh. Sure thing. Like I said, paper ain't going anywhere. My training time, though, is ticking by. So—"

Pleinair cuts off the martial artist, quickly becoming impatient with her single-mindedness. "Dragons, miss. There are _dragons_ coming—they've already obliterated an entire village along these outskirts, and they could be arriving at anytime."

She blinks a bit, before releasing a mighty laugh. "Man! That was a good one. Kid, I don't get worked up like demons of your age. Me, I know things. And let me tell you," she waggles a finger in Pleinair's face. "Dragons don't bother with the outskirts. There's nothing to gain really, you see."

"And this is why," Pleinair shoots back caustically, whacking the offending finger out of her personal space, "you are supposed to read the letter. Because if you do not believe the words of a _mere child_, you will at least believe that of a fellow _town leader_."

"Ah, Sakura? No worries," the Black Belt says flippantly. "She can wait."

"Ummm, no," Pleinair argues. "The Dragons could descend anytime; you need to assemble your fighters and prepare so that not all is lost."

"That again?" She tilts her head back and laughs. "Sorry kid, I'm not falling for it. Go play your games with some other children, alright?"

Pleinair opens her mouth to retort, but then closes it without emiting a single sound. She is completely miffed. Here she is, completely serious, _urgent_. She has run at top speed for the span of several days to deliver them a dire message that they need to hear.

And she is ignored.

It stands to be reiterated. She sped out of Sunset Town, forced herself to live on the barest of rations, facing darkness and Spirits and miles upon miles of land, stomach churning out of nervousness, head spinning with dizziness from lack of oxygen—

All for _their_ plight. All for the concern of what may befall _them_, if she did not rush here in time. She was supposed to come before the Dragons did, and warn them. They would prepare for the monsters' arrival. They would not be decimated by bloody talons. In her mind's eye, they would not be burned alive in what was a peaceful home several minutes ago.

And she was ignored.

So much for good will.

"Well," Pleinair hisses, forcing herself to lower her voice so she can deny the rising urge to shout and fume. "Well. I've done my job. Again, I advise you to read the scroll. I'll be leaving now."

The leader's face brightens at this. She perks up, sends a sunny smile and cheery wave. "Hop along now, kid. Good day to you."

It takes a lot of willpower for Pleinair to pivot on her heels and storm out of the tower rather than try to clobber the foolish Black Belt over the head. But she manages to do so, and dashes out with a fresh burst of speed, ignoring the blonde escort waiting at the door. She runs and runs, retracing her route into the Village of Beast, rocks sliding and tumbling in her wake. She was tight on time in the first place, and this visit, it just felt like...

It felt like an honest waste of time. If they weren't going to take her seriously, she may as well never have taken this detour. Regardless, they'd be burning anyways.

The venomous thought brings her to a halt. She is right outside the gates again. She turns aside to the female guard, and taps the once-again dozing guard on the shoulder.

"Hmmm...?" A sleepy, incoherent mumble.

"There is a swarm of Dragons flying in the skies of these outskirts," she declares flatly. "They may come at anytime, so please be on your guard. Your leader does not heed the warning."

The guard turns to her, surprise and bafflement written all across her face.

"Good luck," Pleinair manages to grind out, and dashes away again. She earnestly does not wish luck for the one in the tower.

Idiot leaders did not mean idiot subjects. Hopefully, the guard would take heed in their brainless leader's place.

She already tried. Done her part. The rest was up to them.

* * *

Dry lightning streaks across the night sky, luminescent yellows and whites and flashes of toxic pink and purple. One, two, three...seven...fifteen seconds later, the distant ripple of thunder reaches her ears.

Her feet thud heavily against the dirt, anger acting as fuel for her muscles to keep pulling and relaxing, her drive to rush forward. Perhaps those of Badre would be wiser. Would acknowledge her words. Make this voyage have meaning and purpose.

Lightning continues to dart across the sky, her brief light in darkness. The thunders echo her own thudding heart, the pounding in her head.

Time. It is a precious thing.

She swerves her head back, and almost jumps and stumbles from surprise. Behind her, slowly but surely, a gathering of ghosts is there, gliding after her.

She clamps her mouth tightly shut, the muscles along her jaw tense. She _really_ didn't have time, or the mood, for this.

She runs.

* * *

Dirt gives way to ice, and with the lower traction, Pleinair is forced to lower her speed levels. Eventually, Pleinair comes to a full stop and pulls out her map, reconfirming the route again. This part of the journey is mapped out with a jagged, squiggly line.

Pleinair glances up. It would be a hard struggle, traveling sharply uphill along a winding path up in the icy mountains.

It'd be easy for the Dragons, she thinks idly. With their flames like a blast furnace from Inferno, they could just melt down the mountain and let the inhabitants of Badre drown in water.

Pleinair shivers and shakes, hugging her Dimensional Cape around her delicate frame. Such exaggerated, inane thoughts. She already had more than her dose of idiocy from the Village of Beast's leader.

_Let me be in time_, she pleads to the icy mountain looming overhead.

_Let me be in time._

* * *

She ignores the cold, so icy and biting that it burns. She ignores it, and the misty puff of breath veils a soft smile, because she has finally arrived, and there are no Dragons.

She goes to the base of the nearest tower, calling up to the dirty-blonde archer. "I am a messenger from Sunset Town! The leader has urgent news to deliver!"

The archer stares down, analyzing for a few seconds. Without fuss, she exchanges a few short words with a blue-haired archer further behind. The blue-haired one strides to a frozen tree and slides down to the base, smoothing her skirt out as she moves to stand below the archway formed by two other frozen trees.

"Greetings. I am one of the Society's Snipers. Please follow me—I shall escort you to the Sevria."

Pleinair nods, and quickly moves to follow. Together, silently, they make their way across the frozen landscape. There are no grasses, but the frozen trees remain scattered like old monuments. Perhaps they hinted of warmer climates, once upon a time.

* * *

The Sniper gives a low bow, tendrils of blue hair bouncing and falling forward with the motion. "The Elder of Sevria will arrive soon. Please wait here momentarily." With that, the escort pivots on her heels and turns to a direction perpendicular to the route they came from.

Pleinair glances around at the clearing she was left to wait at. Everything was a sharp and crisp shade of faint blue and white. However, at the very center stood a lone, giant evergreen tree shooting its innumerable branches up towards the grey sky. Drawn to the only greenery in these icy regions, an inaudible gasp falls from her lips as she takes in the sight before her with a stunned countenance.

Hanging from the canopy of needle-like leaves are dozens of demon younglings, tapered to the ends of gnarled, thick branches like fruits to a tree. Some are mere babies, with more fragile-looking stems shooting out of the top of their heads. The others look slightly more developed, and seem to hang from the woody length of their spines. All are female, with the natural bouncy curls so characteristic of the archers.

She senses someone behind her, and the snap of a twig branch confirms it. From the corner of her eye, she sees massive curls of once-bubble-gum pink enter her field of vision, framing a face that must have been delicate and enchanting during its youth. Now, though, the hair is striped with streaks of grey, the face wrinkled, the frame slightly hunched over.

"Is this how everyone here is born?"

"Indeed," an old, cracked voice answers. "Since ancient times this tree has brought forth archers from its branches, and we as its children have built and settled in this village to protect it ever since we came to exist."

She continues to stare at the tree, the calm faces of young children framed by curly locks of hair, expressions smooth and peaceful as ones in deep slumber.

She hands the parchment scroll with blue seal from Sakura to the Elder, and her voice is soft as she speaks.

"The Ahzi Dahaka and Nidhogg are coming. This tree..."

The Elder places a wrinkled, leathery hand on Pleinair's shoulder, and she trails off. With determined eyes that lance into Pleinair's, the old Striker says, "We will harness all of our strength to protect it, this Tree of Life."

She looks away then, from the Elder's eyes and the tree to the dirt ground sprinkled with patches of grass and frost.

"...the results would depend on how your abilities weigh against theirs."

"Child, do you have hope still? Victim of the Hours..."

She stiffens slightly. "I'm not a child. I'm over a thousand years old."

"Yet your very image is one of a child," the Elder calmly replies. "Through the Hours, your appearance will surely change, much more than it has these past a thousand years." She pauses momentarily as she cranes her bony neck, withered face turned up to look at the tree. "As will they."

She looks back at the archers-to-be. "I pity them," Pleinair mutters softly." They will be born in a time of darkness, and will be forced to put back the shattered pieces."

"And yet they are not Victims of the Hour." Pleinair whips her neck around to look at the Elder in surprise and consternation as she continues. "Neither am I, or the adults. Only the young ones like you, who grew up in the Netherworld's outskirts."

Pleinair hastily refutes the Striker's claim, bewildered. "We are all living through this era of anarchy."

The wizened woman nods but counters her statement. "Indeed. But some revel in it. Some do not see the chaos as a new change. And us demons of the older generation will probably die not long into the times. Only ones like you, child, who have had a peaceful past to compare events to and are forced to endure the times, can be called true Victims of the Hours."

Pleinair twists her hands together, eyes widening. She absorbs this.

"You...have resolved to die."

"As you have come to send warning of, a swarm of dragons encroach upon us as we speak." The Striker cracks a weary smile. "As villagers of Badre, we have a responsibility. We will die to protect what is precious to us, and as you have said, hopefully let them," she waves a hand to the slumbering children of the trees, "survive to at least pick up the ashes."

Pleinair remains silent, hands dropping back to her sides. She doesn't know how to respond to something like that, to such grim resolve.

The elderly grandmother raises her hand off Pleinair's shoulders as she removes a cloth-wrapped parcel from her bag. Her face crinkles into a smile as she stretches her arm out to Pleinair. Red orbs widen slightly in confusion. "What is—"

"A thank you gift, child, for embarking on such a journey to warn us."

She accepts the item and removes the cloth which slithers down to the ground. A gun.

"Nether 35, I believe. It is a simple gun that one of the archers claimed from a monster drop. But we archers have no use for such things, and your escort had noted that you were weaponless."

She looks up to the Elder, an almost inaudible gasp escaping due to shock and gratitude. "Thank you..." she finishes with a deep bow. "But I never wielded a gun before."

"Ah, but that is not the true gift," she says as a chuckle vibrates through her ancient frame. Pleinair looks back up in askance. "In here," she taps the gun lightly with a bony figure. "Is a Specialist, Shamrock the Armsmaster. It's a high-powered one, the Oakrot."

"Armsmaster?"

"A Specialist that speeds up the learning process. Statisticians cover experience and overall growth; Armsmasters focus on weapon mastery."

Pleinair's eyes widen to the size of saucers, stunned by the extent of the Elder's thoughtfulness. She deduced from the lack of weapon that Pleinair had never possessed or trained to use one, and went out of her way to provide a solution. Pleinair launches into another series of bows in gratitude. "Thank you so much," she says as her grip tightens around the gun handle. "I'll surely treasure it."

The village Elder smiles softly as she briefly ruffles Pleinair's sky-blue hair. "Continue to fly, child. Continue to fly."

Pleinair returns a shy smile as she brushes her hair back down with pale fingers. "Thank you," she says softly. "I'd better get going now."

The Striker stiffens, back straightening as she assumes a more powerful posture. "Indeed—I concur. I'd advise you to head for the Mineral Caverns immediately."

Two grave, solemn pairs of eyes—one cerulean, one crimson—stare unblinkingly at each other.

"Yeah," Pleinair almost murmurs, her voice so quiet it threatens to flee with the wind. "Good luck—"

A roar.

They freeze, whatever words left unspoken suddenly grinding to a stuttering halt.

Another. Then another, another, another—a symphony of terrible, vicious bellows, storming the air like furious thunder. Resounding and echoing, one roar diffusing and melding into another fresh wave of roars. What Pleinair was quick to establish as the Prelude to Destruction.

_Already?_

_Already__—_

"They're here."

_...already._


	6. Chapter 6: ad mortem

**Disclaimer:** None of the copyrights to Disgaea belong to me. (Yes, Captain Obvious.)

**Author's Notes:** Thanks anon for your review! Pleinair is certainly mysterious, and I was genuinely surprised by the lack of backstory.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter six: ad mortem**

—to death

* * *

It echoes in the valley, and in her mind's eye, Pleinair is transported back to that fateful night.

_A smoldering village; flames that tauntingly lick the night air. Hungry reds and oranges that parade across screeching timbers of wood. Dark silhouettes and flailing arms. A face, a slightly aged version of her own—smudged with grey ash and scrunched in pain. So much pain. And the constant sound, _sound_—_

_Screams. Shrieks. Cries and sobs, the ceaseless pitch of wails and deep, thundering peals of chest-thudding roars—_

"Archers of the Sevria!" The Elder barks out commands, composure and dignity personified. The archers of Badre have all swarmed around the Tree of Life, and Pleinair can only blink in confusion, lost as to when they all managed to scramble over to this desolate icy landscape. "Dispatch at once upon hearing your orders!

"Freischutz division! Stand ground at the highest peaks of Badre, but only three of you at the gates!" The addressed division stands neatly in the front, its members particularly eye-catching with sunset-gold locks, matching tunics and skirts. They gather into a tight circle, and one Freischutz in the center dishes out more details before they jump and scatter. Pleinair whirls her head about and squints, trying to peer through the snow and darkness to see their vanishing backs, but she blinks her eyes and they are gone.

"Ace Archers and Snipers," The Elder continues, "You will form the outermost wall of defense. Have one Ace Archer perched at each tower to act as commander!" Rows of archers give the Elder a sweeping bow, bobbing heads of navy blue or palest pink. Once more, Pleinair watches in silence as they turn in unison towards the general direction from whence she came.

_(If they could repel the Dragons right out there—)_

"Valkyries and Strikers—" The old woman coughs, face contorting briefly in visible discomfort. The moment of weakness passes, and she wheels back to face the two lines. "Half of each division will remain here, stationed around the Tree of Life." The glint in her eyes turns steely and cold. "It is to be protected _with your lives_, understood? The rest form the second and third defense circles."

They nod and regroup. The commander of the Valkyries stays behind and arranges her group in a large circle surrounding the tree. The other squad, led by a grim-faced Striker, assigns two other Valkyries to command, and they split into three parties.

Pleinair idly observes the defensive circle formed around and beneath the tree of unborn children. They draw and analyze their wooden bows, spinning them around and grazing meticulous fingers over their surfaces. Some of them draw strings from a pouch on their belts to replace worn bowstrings. Their eyes are smaller than their usual doll-like orbs; some of the older Valkyries have crinkling crow feet. Their jaws are relaxed, their lips parted and upturned—

_They're smiling_, Pleinair belatedly realizes. She's mystified. _A force that could swallow all their lives is here, and they are standing before the tree that symbolizes their hopes, their burden, their responsibility, their_ future_, and they are—_

"Finally," The Elder sighs. Pleinair stops thinking and shifts back to focus on the Society's leader.

"The Archers are assigned to the residential district to protect the young and retired. The rest of the Sevria will follow and give further orders." Her voice fades as the final division and council leaders retreat further back, lifting her head up to see the cloudy night sky. Moments later, her eyes slide down to the side over at Pleinair. "From where will they probably come?"

—_smiling—_

Pleinair's breath catches in her throat, as if her ribs are being constricted. Because it is there again in her eyes, a light glimmering so strongly it _lances_. Blue and hard as the unforgiving ice crystals that catch and focus the moonlight with the harshest clarity.

Pleinair tears her eyes away, hands clutching and knotting into the fabric of her Dimensional Cape, eyes focusing instead on the steady white puffs of air from her mouth. "I - um. I c-can't...can't say for sure," she stumbles over her words, "I came from that direction—" She lifts one arm and points a trembling forefinger in the direction of Badre's village entrance.

"—I - I came from there, and my village is - was - in that...um...general direction too - but," she scuffs her feet against the hard ice below and wills herself to enunciate her words properly. "I have not seen or heard them on my journey here, and they're a large swarm. They came as a pack to my village back then—"

_Tearing up the village from its very center of activity, its northern marketplace and largest neighborhood. The only witnesses to destruction and obliteration being the stoic barrier of hills to the West and the quiet encircling trees of the Netherworld's easternmost woods—_

_Diving into the southeastern patch of trees right beside her burning home, face to the darkness and back to the flames, running and turning and running, running till she somehow broke through to the ring of hills—_

"From the northeast." Her eyes narrow, and her voice rings out strong and clear. "It's inconclusive, but I'm inclined to think so."

The Elder's eyes slide closed. "I will gamble on your decision." She walks past Pleinair, a well-disguised hobble in her steps.

"Furthermore…The winds blow from that direction."

The snow falls in heavy sheets, and through the heavy curtain of white she catches one last glimpse of hunched shoulders and a back, a back bowed over and low.

_It looks heavy_, Pleinair thinks. She imagines relieving the Elder of some of that unbearable weight, entertains the notion of soothing away centuries of weariness and responsibility and things to protect.

Instead, she lets slim shoulders fall, and whispers, "Take care."

Too quiet to be heard, not that it matters—or does it? The archer has resolved to die, to fulfill her duties to the very end, and _she_ only knows how to—can only—run.

* * *

Pleinair stands there. Just stands there, feet planted on the frozen terrain, white drifts of snow camouflaging brown Ninja Shoes. Behind her, the Valkyries and Strikers are completely prepared, posture frighteningly straight, eyes tilted to the sky which meets icy peaks, bows drawn at the ready.

Another cacophony of roars vibrates across the night air, this time threatening to burst eardrums. In the northeast, a flicker of orange-yellow shoots up to pierce the sky. A flame arrow.

_It's started._

Behind her, the archers' grips on their bows tighten before relaxing again. Pleinair, instead, lets her left hand drape over her newest parcel, pale fingers feeling deathly cold metal through the cloth.

Her mind calculates calmly despite the numbing fear, deducing that her best—safest—course of action would be to run, to flee, murmuring that it had nothing to do with her and that if she turned her back now, she could remain oblivious to the ending and sustain the belief that her coming had made a difference.

_Because ignorance is bliss, ignorance is hope, and ignorance...ignorance is a prayer._

But.

_Because she had already seen more than enough._

But!

She remembers a reassuring squeeze of her shoulders, a chiseled, firm hand ruffling her hair, the solemn and slightly rough voice of a ninja—her mentor _(for eight days, only for the brief span of barely over a week, but her mentor nonetheless)_— wishing her good luck and telling her: "_Live. Pleinair, survive the Hours."_

_A pair of piercing cerulean eyes, alive, determined, and blazing defiance. Defying the Dragons, defying defeat, defying age—_

She stands there, staring blankly into snow and purple-black clouds and darkness, and for as far back as she could remember, this is the very first time.

The very first time, feeling biting-cold metal below her fingertips.

The very first time her mind is calm but her chest feels empty, and she _doesn't know what to do._

So she stands there.

* * *

Blazing tendrils of orange fire riddle the night sky, blocking out the last pinpricks of starlight and sliver of moon that were still visible through the snow and clouds. Showers of arrows follow two yellow hulking forms over the closest precipices of ice, black lines that enter Pleinair's vision from both corners of her eyes.

From behind, Pleinair hears a series of creaks as the Valkyries and Strikers draw their bows to the fullest, bowstrings taut, finger knuckles ghostly white and arms rippling with constant strength.

The Ahzi Dahakas let out another mighty belch and bellow, releasing great plumes of new flames to burn the torrent of arrows. The one towards Pleinair's left—the one closer by a few hundred meters—flicks a few straggling arrows with a flourish of its tail and a few pumps of its leathery wings. Its reptilian head veers towards the direction of the Tree of Life, and after a few rising beats and spins, it changes its flight path to dive straight for them.

Pleinair reflexively springs into action, ripping her Nether 35 roughly from its satchel before slinging back the bag, complete with the extra magazines within, over her right shoulder. She dives for the cliff wall looming over her left, pressing her back tightly against the ice.

With a nervous shudder and the slightest trembling of her fingers, she flicks forward the safety of her gun. There is the sharp whistling of arrows firing in tandem, a deluge of them arcing high up into the sky and then raining back down. Seconds later, she hears an answering roar of fury.

Pleinair casts a final glance at the archers who ceaselessly pull arrow after arrow from their quivers, some Valkyries even drawing three or four at once, endlessly firing at their two targets. She inhales a deep breath, letting the cold air flood her lungs and soothe her feverish mind into a state of crisp alertness.

_Might as well_, she thinks, her left hand clutched tightly around the handle of her gun, forefinger hovering over the trigger in anticipation. Her heart pounds against her ribcage and her blood absolutely _sings_ as adrenaline courses through her veins.

Because now, she can't flee without a fight.

_Just as well._ And with that final thought, she kicks off the wall of ice and swerves around the bend.

Her eyes automatically narrow into crimson slits as they zoom in on the target before her. She takes in the image of its thick scaly hide, periwinkle streaks on yellow, and mottled with blood. It oozes bright red out of the punctures and deep gashes running across the length of its body. Hovering only a few feet above the ground, Pleinair can even count the number of broken arrows jutting out of its hips and back.

Pleinair lets out a low hiss as the Ahzi Dahaka slams its tail against the cliff wall, whipping the appendage forth and flinging thousands of ice shards before itself to repel the arrows from the Valkyries and Strikers. She pitches forward and hurls herself to the ground, making a series of rolls to evade the fallen arrows and ice crystals as they immediately impale the ground that lay empty in her wake, wincing as a few pieces break and bounce up to scrape her skin.

Twisting around and rising slightly, one knee on the frozen earth, Pleinair grits her teeth and slams down on the trigger, clicking away relentlessly.

The dragon emits a wailing keen before heaving itself higher, beating its giant wings so furiously they stir up a windstorm below. Pleinair, already rendered unsteady by the force of recoil, is flung away and slammed into a frozen tree several meters away.

Unleashing a plume of flame in the direction of the archers, the Ahzi Dahaka ignores the barrage of poisoned arrows as it turns its back to the furious volley. Instead, it circles a few feet higher in the air, craning its neck to scan the ground below.

Pleinair ignores the dizziness and hastily stumbles to her feet to dart behind the ancient husk of tree that she crashed into, analyzing the results of her attack. _Completely lackluster_, she observes bitingly. Squinting desperately, she sees that the only damage she managed to inflict were a couple angry red grazes on the dragon's right hind leg. She realizes upon further scanning that the remaining barrage of bullets had completely missed their target and ended up stuck in the remnants of icy wall instead.

"Tch," Pleinair clicks softly as she fumbles in her bag for another magazine of bullets. _Only succeeded in agitating it._ After some panicked moments of studying the Nether 35 and fumbling with it, she manages to reload her gun.

The dragon behind her releases a smoky snort, and Pleinair jerks her head up in surprise and horror when she hears another ferocious growl from a few meters in front.

_But of course_, she mentally bites back a curse. There were two! How could she forget?

Pleinair whizzes to the right, running as fast as she can on the slick surface to steer clear from the path of the second dragon. The landscape is clear of any obstacles, the icy pinnacles too far to the right to reach in time. Praying that the snow gives her enough cover—_she is dressed in white after all_, she recalls inanely—she closes the distance between her and the second Ahzi Dahaka.

As that hideous hide of yellow encroaches from her left, she silently spins around, gun-wielding arm perfectly outstretched, and presses down once more on the trigger, again and again and again, only adjusting her aim slightly as the dragon flies past.

To her utter horror, the furious cracks and sparks of her firing die off pathetically, the bullets glancing off the Ahzi Dahaka's hide and clattering uselessly onto the icy terrain.

It's enough though, those light burns and shallow puncture wounds, to send the dragon wheeling around with pure rage. Pleinair freezes up as yellow eyes glinting with bloodlust and pure _fury_ turn to pin her to the ground.

Pleinair can only tremble and quake as the jaws of the dragon fall open, and the first curling wisps of a flame form before its gaping mouth—

_It's over_, she realizes, as a chill completely unrelated to the cold of the wintry weather courses down her spine. Her eyes fall tightly shut. _There are no other distractions here, no places to hide—_

"Doppelganger!"

Pleinair jerks to attention, barely managing to prevent herself from leaping a few feet in the air after hearing that piercing ring. Snapping her head around so fast it might have cracked, she watches with bafflement and shock as an Ace Archer comes hurdling from one of the icy peaks further behind, rocketing straight towards the dragon. Whirling her head back again, she promptly lifts up both arms to shield her eyes from the great burst of light that makes stars dance in her eyes.

When she lets one eye open up a slight crack, she sees a head of pale pink curls shifting slightly, just enough so that she can see the wink the Ace Archer sends her before her image puffs and vanishes in a soft glow of pink.

But before Pleinair can comprehend those immediate events, she is knocked off her feet and lands unceremoniously on the ground as the very ice below her trembles from a heavy impact. Eyes wide, she unsticks her undoubtedly bruised check and glances over to the dragon right before her. It snarls and snorts as it pounds its tail furiously against the icy terrain, causing further vibrations that prevent Pleinair from clambering back onto her feet. Blood flows and leaks from its mouth in bubbly gurgles, trickling to a steady pool of coppery crimson.

Just as she begins to think that one dragon is down for good though, Pleinair emits a startled scream as she is hurled back to the ground again. Her head strikes the icy terrain first, and disorienting white sparks explode across her vision. Taking in great gasps of chilling air, she releases a hiss and whimper of pain as she feels sharp talons digging into her right shoulder, sinking in sinking in deep deep _deep_ to the bone and blood the _blood_ warm and sticky and pooling forth overflowing from her shoulder her shoulder it feels like it's _burning_—

Biting back another scream, legs struggling futilely in the air, her breath becomes ragged and light as she feels the sensation of her stomach flopping—descending—to nothingness. With another roar that vibrates deeply and sends another spasm of pain through her shoulder, she kicks even more desperately as the dragon drags her higher into the air.

_It's no use it's no use no use no use why even bother trying to fight why did none of the bullets work _IT HURTS_—_

_Do something do something anything anything_, a voice in her mind shouts desperately,_ attack it fire at it whatever just STOP THE PAIN—_

Her mind flashes back to that broken shout of "Doppelganger," of that attack flying straight towards—_where, where?_

_The mouth._

Pleinair's mind blanks out as she falls limp. Of course, how stupid of her not to think of it earlier. If the hide is too thick, then she can only aim for the weak spots. An open mouth. The eyes.

_But no!_ The talons dig even deeper into her shoulder, releasing a fresh torrent of slick blood that flows down her arm. _Not good enough, can't aim and couldn't possibly get a lucky hit from this angle—_

_Or its underside._

Gaze refocusing and hardening, holding her breath, she lifts her shaky left arm again, muzzle digging into the tender skin of the Ahzi Dahaka right where its heart is located.

She fires. She pulls on the trigger again and again, with a sheer desperation and will that overpowers the pain rattling through the very bone of her sore wrist, jerking her hand unsteady and causing the rest of the bullets to fire _up up up_ in a column towards the dragon's throat, through its chin—

The dragon emits a deep rumble that sounds almost like a dying moan as blood sprays from its mouth, from its neck, bursting like a bright fountain from its chest—

And then Pleinair realizes with cold dread that they are flying, _soaring_ above Badre, altitude dropping rapidly, but before she can so much as shriek the dragon collides right into an icy mountain and they are sent tumbling tumbling hurdling straight to the hard freezing ground its rushing closer the _ice_—

The dragon ends up landing first on its back, but the force of the impact still completely knocks out all of the air in Pleinair's lungs as they skid some distance on the ground, ice shards flinging up and lacerating her pale skin.

Unable to breathe, Pleinair claws at the talons still imbedded in her shoulder before weakly rolling off the dead dragon and crawling some distance away. Her mouth remains wide open in silent and futile pants, but there is no reprieve.

Seeing their fallen comrade, three Nidhoggs let out furious bellows and fly towards Pleinair. She makes out two flanks of archers—Freischutz included—unleashing a barrage of arrows that deter a pair, yet one of them still manages to swerve past and head her way.

Her head is swimming, she's lost—is losing—too much blood, the dragon becomes nothing more than a distorted red blur that looms ever closer, and the only thought racing through her head is that she is _dead dead dead dead _dead_—_

"Usagi Drop."

A voice so quiet and soft yet flat, that it takes her a second to realize it is her own. In the cloudy haze of her wavering sight, she detects a swamping, fiery light from overhead, rapidly descending and increasing and spreading warmth across her vision—

_Rabbits._

She doesn't have time to make sense of it, the white hares, her familiars and friends of her entire life, reappearing before her, red ribbons still tied around their fluffy necks. Her brain is too sluggish and overwhelmed to feel anything but the vaguest whirls of _relief_ and _joy_. Unconsciously, she stretches out her left hand, weakly calling out for them, wanting to snuggle and embrace them again, then—

_Fire._

Like a cataclysm, the glowing warmth erupts to deafening crashes and explosions as fluffy white become lost in billowing clouds of smoke and crimson and orange and yellows, the ice around her melting into a frigid puddle and seeping cold into every crevice and nook of her body, her bones—

She can't make sense of it. Body bruised, warm blood sloshing with icy waters, ears ringing and bloodshot eyes wide, she can only stare at the space where tens and twenties and _more_, even _more_ rabbits cascaded down from the heavens to burn a Nidhogg charcoal black…

Only to...

Only to _disappear_.


	7. Chapter 7: vive memor leti

**Disclaimer:** None of the credits to Disgaea's creation, development, or distribution belong to me.

**Author****'s Notes:** Let it be known that everyone's reviews for the previous chapter has made me inordinately happy (and a tad worried that this next part won't live up to expectations...-gulp-). Nether99, I concur—Pleinair needs more fic. And here's a not-so-soon update! Oops.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter ****seven: vive memor leti**

—live remembering death

* * *

_Disappeared. Gone. Vanished. _Dea—

_No. No, no, nonono._ Pleinair dips her head down, forehead diving right into the shallow pool of water. Fine needle points of ice pierce through her flesh, drilling straight past her ivory skull—_cold, it's cold, the explosion never happened_; crystal currents tumble and lap over her numbed brain, drowning—_they_—and clamping down—_must_—on the conclusion—_have_—she is loathe to draw.

Past frozen memories: an age like a far-off dream. _Snowy fur, fluffy to the touch. Streams of red ribbon, whispering silkily between thin fingers. Back in the cool of an emerald grove, dappled with warm streams of golden sun._

Cold and warmth. _Frozen terrain; trees encased in ice. Blood. Warm and honey-like in consistency, pouring heavily from her wounded shoulder. Crystal blue waters turning pink. A haze of heat, a cross-shaped explosion, and__—_

—_for you they had come, for you they had d-di—_

"Shut up," she hisses, shoving at the treacherous voice that understands—she doesn't want to know, doesn't want to accept. Her fingers dig past the snow into the ground, bloody nails scratching gouges in the ice. _Shut up be quiet please shut up justshutthehellup!_ The cold has settled quick and quiet like a sheet of frost on blades of grass, leeching away the strength from her muscles and shackling trembling limbs to the frozen earth. But she picks herself up. Shoves off the ground with her shaking left arm so she is sitting upright—_controlled and calm, as Zephyrus had taught; escaped death's clutches and that is good, you've done well, everything is fine, it will all be alright_—bowed head lifted up like a heavy boulder.

Don't think—_a raging blur of red skin_—not about—_the light ripping a hole in the sky_—but instead—_swarms of soft white to join the snow_—something logical, something tactical, something—_incendiary flames_—that must be done!

Her eyes dart about furiously—_no, there is no charred corpse there, don't look ahead_—swirling about in their sockets as if trapped in a macabre dance, until her sight catches and clings onto the parcels hanging lopsidedly off her mangled shoulder. She tentatively removes the outermost one—the shredded sack storing the magazines (_half of which have fallen out_, she estimates clinically)—and places it gently on the ground in front of her. Then—_right, just like this, focus on the practical_—she gingerly tugs on the thin rope of the next one, stripping it free from the sticky and tattered shoulder of her Dimensional Cape. The cloth is ripped to near shreds, dyed the deepest red; the string is nearly broken, hanging together by its very last strand of coarse thread. Inside is a large scroll: the map. Ignoring the persistent tremors of her hands, Pleinair pulls it out.

A distant scream, harsh and low, echoes and blares in the valley; it pounds against the walls of ice and presses against her eardrums, but she stubbornly ignores it in favor of the map._ I have to do this Ihavetodothis don't get distracted_—

_Devastated_, she registers. The parchment is more tattered and flimsy than a crumbling treasure map, gouged and shredded as an abused wad of tissue. The ink has completely run across the canvas, becoming angry splotches interrupted by yawning expanses and flecks of crimson. _It is fortunate_, she muses, _that I no longer really need it_. Without hesitation, she shoves the map back in its ripped bag and tosses it aside. The assurance of its presence was nice, but now she'd have to do without. _Just like this, methodically; all will be fine, just need to heal myself and—_

The jars and vials of medicine are lost too, and Pleinair's heart clenches before sinking with dread. A stomach-churning mix of Caterpillar Gum, Charred Newt, and Rooster Blood assaults her olfactory senses as she loosens the drawstring of the next bag. Pleinair barely swallows a gag—_the smell the smell it reeks of burnt flesh and stale fluids and death,_ death_ oldrottendeadcorpses_; nose curled in a shadow of disdain, she turns her head to the side and peers into the bag with a cursory sideways glance. Inside, half-empty or completely vacant containers are haphazardly jumbled together. The glass surfaces have giant spider webs of cracks weaving through the brittle material, and the resounding chinks of glass pieces can be heard as she jostles the sack around. A few shards poke out of the rough material, and Pleinair winces; _good thing this wasn't the innermost sack_. At the very bottom—_oh thank goodness_—she sees two miraculously unharmed vials of Rooster Blood, only adorned with light scratches and shallow surface cuts that don't reach the interior. Pleinair pulls out the corks—_stay alive, (you're sick) stay alive_, a voice like her mother's echoes softly in her bruised head,_ if you don't drink it now (your medicine) to heal your wounds then when will you? (or you won't get better and then you won't be able to play outside with the rabbits_—and with a single swing, pinches her nose as she downs the slightly-congealed blood (_it's alright, it's not your own blood_, a part of her thinks reassuringly, _and most definitely not_ theirs_, the heat bubbled all the rabbits' away—shut up!_). That satchel is also discarded.

_Assess the damage, check the supplies, don't think of anything other than this!_ Pleinair peels off the last two bags and plops them down on the ground before her person, shifting the one with gun magazines to the side. The satchel of linens, while a bit mussed, is largely unharmed. As for the clawed food bag: candies in colorful paper wraps, taiyaki, and aluminum-wrapped bars of chocolate are arranged in a messy heap, but the items themselves seem fine. Pleinair idly picks up one bar. Ghosting over the chilled surface, her small fingers trace a network of cracks running through the chocolate. _Broken, but edible._ She lifts the brutally torn up bag of gun magazines and dumps its remaining contents into the food satchel. On afterthought—_this threadbare sack won't last long either_—she lifts that bag up too and tosses the combined contents into the last one, letting the clothing cushion their fall.

Slinging the lone parcel over her left shoulder, elbow pressing the bulky cloth to her side, she gingerly closes her hand around the gun again. The Nether 35 (_the Elder gave it to you so you could protect yourself,_ a voice mockingly chides_, but you_—pleasepleaseplease—_couldn't even shoot properly, could you? And because of your poor marksmanship_—stop—_the poor rabbits_—don't say anymore!—_took the_—no, that didn't happen!—_fall_) weighs heavily, cold metal biting trembling fingers. Pleinair flexes her wrist experimentally, and drops her arm back down in a pained hiss. Tightening her grip is out of the question. Gun clutched loosely in hand, she rearranges her frozen feet and heaves—

—Tumbles back to the ground; rocked flat on her back. Automatically, she blinks her eyes open, and with the way her head is tilted, she stares straight into crinkly black hide and empty eye sockets.

_Usagi Drop._ The two words, soft and dull, slither poisonously down her spine, settling in her stomach like churning roils of darkness. _Look_: her eyes are transfixed by the Nidhogg's two unseeing voids, gaping holes of nothingness that seep into the marrow of her bones and eat away at her heart—

_Look: that is Usagi Drop. It's reduced that mighty dragon to nothing—_

Before eyes opened sickeningly wide, the world flares brighter. Shadows lengthen; the husk of Nidhogg is thrown into sharp relief; the ice seems to glitter; more inky swirls of purple are visible in the inverted sky.

—_and look, look: can you see anything? They, too, are nothing more than dust on the wind—_

Everything is basked in some far off light, some deeper glow that Pleinair's mind has not pinpointed. But still, eyes wide and unblinking, she cannot see any such thing. As if...they were never there to begin with.

_They were there and they are not there and now they will never be there nor will they ever be anywhere._

Pleinair snaps her eyes shut, instead trying to strain her ears. The low roars have dissipated; in this dead silence, she thinks she may be able to hear a passing gale, fur tumbling against fur, or even...dust grating upon dust on the wind.

Instead—

A crack, a screech, and a resounding hiss, bubbly, seething and persistent in her ear. A sound too inhuman and not even animalistic.

_Fire. It's what you lost everything to, no? Your home; the village. Your mother. And..._

She can't stay here. She can't. One Ahzi Dahaka and one Nidhogg are down already; by the scream from before, it is likely that a third fell too. So that only leaves the Ahzi Dahaka that was also heading for the Tree of Life—

_Trees—flames—burning—no;_

Only leaves that Ahzi Dahaka and final Nidhogg for the archers. They're strong, they—

_Listen: you lost everything, everything, except for one thing—_

—the Archers of the Sevria could handle them—

—_which is now also lost to ash—_

—but she, she cannot stay here; her part in the fight is over, over—

—_but it's different this time. You must remember—_

—Remember, get back up; the medicine's healing must've already taken effect. Pleinair raises herself slowly to a sitting position—

—_that this time, this time, your one last thing has become nevermore—_

—_Survive the Hours._ Pleinair hastily scrambles to her feet, taking a few precarious steps to steady herself and wave off the crushing waves of vertigo—

—_They—rabbits, friends, familiars—are gone—_

—That Ahzi Dahaka dragged her past the gateway to Badre already. She only needs to climb down the mountain again, before zigzagging further northwest. She has to go. _Hastogo hastogo hastogo_—

_And it's all by your command._

She runs.

* * *

She stumbles clumsily down the sloping paths with none of the grace she used on her climb up. Instead, she totters unsteadily on her feet like a clumsy newborn or a tipsy tavern dweller, crashing into the icy wall at every turn with a sharp clang of her gun that does not echo in the night.

Still, she remains undeterred in her haste. She swerves to the left again but trips over her own feet, the skin along her left arm rubbed raw on the ice as she lands with a soft _whump_ on the—_when did the snow become so deep?_—ground. Pushing and kicking through the snow that her knees have sunken into, she rolls several paces forward before swaying to her feet again, coming to a jarring halt as her back hits the frozen rock.

Pearly beads of cold sweat roll down her temple, the bridge of her nose, her chin; she shifts once more and peels herself off the ice with hurried footsteps to continue her winding descent. In her head chants a metronome, cold and flat and in time with each hasty step as she rebuilds momentum:

_I have to get away. Have to get away. Havetogetaway getaway getaway getaway—_

The burlap sack beats against her ribs in a steady rhythm, beating in time to the chant in her mind and the soft sloshing of her footfalls; _thump thump thump, getaway getaway getaway_. It feels like she's a caged beast pacing around its dungeon perimeters, spinning around and around in futile circles...

Then the slope of the next winding turn becomes steeper, and Pleinair loses her footing on the hard-packed snow again, wind-milling her arms in vain as she falls on her back, sliding down the makeshift slide of ice—

_Holy—no—!_ With a panicked gasp, Pleinair attempts to push her feet deeper into ice as she rolls onto her belly, arms splayed in front, fingers and gun sinking into snow. But it is still too slippery, the traction too poor, and Pleinair feels as if her stomach has fallen out as her feet slide past the brink.

Pleinair involuntary holds her breath in as she continues to slide, thinking _well, there's not much point in dangling—even if I could_. So, tossing her directionless prayers to the void of sky, Pleinair presses herself tightly to the ground, the wall of ice—

The snow completely gives way from under her, and Pleinair shrieks as the hand of her just-barely-healed shoulder flails out to claw for a hold in empty air. Flints of the ice scrape across her cheek and front like sharpened claws slashing at prey, and then she is separating from the wall, touched by nothing but air—

Knees bent, back bowed, Pleinair falls flat on her feet. But the momentum sends her body swinging back. As if by instinct (_but really, ingrained in muscle memory by dodging like crazy for a week_, she mentally corrects before thinking _as if that really matters right no, oh curse the gods above—_) she curls up fully into a ball before hitting the ground and rolling backwards over the next ledge—

_Uh oh. No, no, don't fall on the neck, spare the head, holy—_she moves her hands to clasp tightly at the back of her neck, the side of the gun barrel digging uncomfortably into the back of her skull—

Crashes into the ground back-first again, snow barely padding her fall as she is rocked to her shoulder blades again, then tumbling, tumbling—

—bag slapping hard against her back and bouncing on her knees as it spins in wild circles about the axis of her shoulder, she soars again through empty air—

_(Move like a shadow in a forest, like a grain of sand in a creek, like the mist on the wind—)_

Then finally, _fortunately_, landing on her bottom with a final _whump_, rocking precariously on the soles of her feet before coming to rest her elbows in the snow. The ground under her is flat: the base of the mountain of Badre.

For a moment, she doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare twitch a single finger, eyes wide and crossed, making nothing of white and blue and black. It is as if she is hanging by a spider's thread, tip-toeing on thin ice, teetering at the edge of living and not-living, trapped in a delicate Time that threatens to shatter into a thousand pieces like a cracked little hourglass. Her mouth falls open, but she fails to breathe, to inhale or exhale.

Her mind is blank. Empty. A white canvas, with shadows of thoughts flittering about, dancing at its edges, rushing in and swimming out of each other. But she can't grasp, can't discern any of them. She spreads her palms and pushes against the snow, blinks her eyes once, twice—attempts to regain control of her motor functions, of the space between her ears that whistles like an empty tunnel—

And then she is _crashing_, being crushed, _crushed_—her limbs spasm, her fists clench and unclench. Her stomach tightens, intestines slither and coil—heart feels like it's being gashed open, as if her lungs are ballooning—_but there's no air no air Ican'tbreathe_—or her ribs are constricting—she claws at the ground, pounds at it, kicks desperately at the snow and the ice with her feet as her nerves burn electric; heaves, gasps, the air rattles through her throat but somehow she's not taking it in, it vanishes into nothing; and her head, her eyes, her ears—everything is pounding, _pounding_—

_Why_ your fault by your command Usagi Drop_ no I did not want this did not _killed the dragons _want that_ killed the rabbits _no it wasn't _at Badre_ wasn't _the Elder_ I was _trying to help you_ I was trying to fight_ Mother _I tried I really did _you fled_ no she told m_e to run like a helpless village girl_ and I ran away from a lot of_ ghosts that will haunt you_ as I tried to warn the _Village of Beast_ she ignored me _didn't take you seriously_ so _she's right there's_ nothing I could do she couldn't take _you seriously it was impossible since you have accomplished nothing_ so I went ahead to go away from_ she who saw your lack of credibility_ to inform the next ones so that_ you would standby and watch_ but no I fought then_ the rabbits fought for you_ but _you killed them—

A scream—high, shrill—pierces her ears and makes her mind throb; she has half a mind to shout _would you please be quiet_ but she can't because she's still _still_ not breathing not taking in any air _whywhywhy_—_oh_, the screaming is coming from her own throat—welling up and overflowing and maybe she can just scream it all out this convoluted swirl of _death pain misery whatisthis_ that is bleeding and hammering and pounding inside her—

_I have to_ run away again_ have to get away _Badre the scene of your crime_ have to go farther and farther away _from the home you abandoned_ to the Mineral Caverns_ to impose on more_ to recover and then_ continue to escape escape_ find _painsorrowblame_ something _someone to leech off of _to do_ to cast away your burdens_ to survive_ to flee—

Her scream chokes off and dies, but as she rises to her knees and fists her hair her voice rips again—eyes clenched shut her throat is burning her eyes are burning her shoulder her wrist her head everything _everything _is pounding, pounding with blood and disgust and panic and _it's unbearable whatisthis what is this_—

Her voice rises higher and higher in pitch, until it trembles and vibrates so violently it cuts off suddenly, strangled in the unrelentingly cold night air. She gasps and heaves again on all fours and she is staring at the ground _it should be white_ which is spotted with black blotches and she is just_ tired_ oh so tired, her limbs waver and give then—

Darkness takes over.

* * *

Pleinair wakes up to a foreign sensation of warmth and suffocation, suffocation like a thick fluffy blanket—

Pleinair jerks up, tries to unfurl from her curled up position, but her legs meet heavy resistance. Her eyes dart about, taking in the dark shadows pressing in from all sides. She squirms and shuffles in an attempt to widen her moving space, as she hears rustling and powdery soft iciness fall upon her person. She skims her finger pads over the uneven surfaces she cannot see, and—

She realizes she's been packed in by the snow.

With a fresh vigor brought on by panic, she pounds desperately at the barrier—_wall ceiling ground whatever_—that has entrapped her. Adrenaline floods through her sluggish system, and fresh waves of heat roll down her skin like dew on frosted grass. She does anything and everything—claw with chipped nails, pound with bruised fists, slam with stinging elbows, kick with a flurry of feet, beat with her Nether 35, trill and scream at the top of her scorched lungs—

The combined shocks course through the snow, vibrating and widening unseen cracks until Pleinair flings her arms across her face as the roof of snow sighs and gives way, collapsing on all sides and atop of her. Shoving her gun into the lip of her satchel, she funnels through the loosened snow, desperately digs to the surface with all the semblance of a zombie clawing its way out of its fresh grave.

Her head emerges first with a soft pop, and Pleinair takes a brief break to gulp in fresh air to relieve her aching lungs. Next are the shoulders, her right arm, then her left as she uses her right to pull out the sack as well. Pushing up with her hands, she frees her entire upper body and kicks her way to uncover the rest.

Pleinair tumbles over to the side with a weary sigh of exhaustion, but is mindful not to fall—_asleep_—again. Bag strewn at her side, she sticks an arm in to remove a bar of chocolate. Sitting back up, Pleinair fumbles through the bag—_seems like most of the candies flew out_—as she munches on the dark chocolate. Grabbing a fresh set of white dress, arm sleeves, stockings and ribbon, she downs the rest of the bar with little relish before changing (because even if it _is_ horridly cold, staying in her damp clothes would guarantee her becoming an icicle). Then, picking up the ruined, bloody garment, Pleinair ponders for the barest second before tossing it right into the hole she came up from. _Too troublesome to patch up_.

_And with that._..she pulls out a teriyaki this time (_it's fine to have a treat on occasio_n, she reasons) as she slings the bag over her shoulder again, stepping forth with cautious and uneasy steps while she chews absently at her food. It is daybreak, and the snow has stopped. The snow-capped peaks in her immediate surroundings loom over in serene grace, and...squinting away from the rising sun and turning right, she sees the purple silhouettes of jaggier peaks.

_Ah._ The mountains where the Mineral Caverns were excavated.

Pleinair breaks out in several longer strides until the food has settled comfortably past her stomach, after which she then proceeds to hop forward into a full-out run fueled by her spike of blood sugar.

On her way, twisting and turning and slamming her feet against snow that melts and fades into barren grey rock, there are no ghosts. None at all, no lingering monster to harass and pester her, as if they too were frightened by the clamors of battle and fled the dragons. She is a lone soul traversing the lands, protected and closed in by the mountains that pass her by, and in the slumbering quiet of the morning, she can simply spirit past. A blur of white and blue, camouflaging perfectly with the pale bleak surroundings that she dashes past.

Tendrils of darkness niggle at the corners of her mind, but she waves them aside, tosses them on the winds of her run.

She'll have to reach the Mineral Caverns to determine what she can do next.

And that thought sends the darkness slithering back, placates it enough to fold beneath the surface of her brain...

For now.

* * *

Pleinair's ears tune to her heavy pants and the rough grinding of rocks as she slows her steps, scuffing the soles of her shoes on the sea of loose pebbles. Less than a hundred meters away is a gaping black hole driven through the base of a craggy mountain.

She continues to steadily approach it, and loose rocks give way to flatly tiered ground. The outermost walls of the cave is just like the rest of the mountain—coal black and dull as the grayish ground at her feet. But around the mouth of the cavern, its craggy face becomes significantly brighter. Hewn out of rock crystals in its entirety, the lip of the cave entrance—and what Pleinair can see of the tunnel inside it—shines with the pale translucent quality of grey crystals. Its many unpolished surfaces catch and refract the light, shimmering a ghostly bluish-white and blinking pinpricks of deeper blue in the darkness.

All is silent; Pleinair can pick up no clamors, no sounds of the hustle-and-bustle of everyday life. _Everyday village life_, she amends; _maybe they are quieter, or live deeper inside the mountain_. Figuring she has nothing to lose anyways, she steps past the cave entrance as an uninvited guest.

The sounds of her first few footsteps echo and bounce off the walls, the thudding sounds becoming higher and higher as they zip through her spine. With a nervous shudder, Pleinair draws out her gun again _(just a precautionary measure; Sakura said they were marksmen anyways, the sight of a gun shouldn't put them on alert too much)_ —not that it can fend from the creeping darkness of her mind—as she bites her lower lip and adjusts the weight of her footfalls so she pads soundlessly forward.

The cave eventually becomes larger, widening and heightening so that the oppressive feeling fades; not only that, but the darkness seems to lighten up too, as she can now see the grey crystals glittering blue in the shadows again. Without knowing it, the tenseness and anxiety rolls off her form as if she's shedding it as skin, muscles relaxing and breathing returning to a more natural pace.

Not ten minutes later, she sees the end of the tunnel, and the exit is illuminated in grayish-blue light. Picking up her pace, she dashes to it, and breaks through the darkness to—

She gasps.

The tunnel entrance of the cave has given way to an immense dome-shaped hall, vast and wide and insurmountably tall, completely carved out of the rock crystals of the mountain. The curved surfaces of the hall are entirely undecorated, left to its natural rough glimmering in a minimalistic design. In a marginally smaller circle, every few feet is a heavy pillar with identical texture to the walls—not stone pillars shipped and brought in from the outside, but carved out from the original rock like the rest of the room. Dotting the walls are jutting half-basins, and inside each and every one of them glows an aquamarine flame. Archways are cut out from each of the other three cardinal directions, and Pleinair imagines with amazement and awe that they lead to a sprawling underground city-palace.

Even at such early hours, several Striders are already up and about. Pleinair pulls her wide-eyed gaze away from the grey-reflecting-blue rock crystal face to let her eyes hop over from one demon to another. Some of them rub at heavy eyelids; a couple have their own guns withdrawn too—one keeps throwing his up high, high to the unreachable ceiling in an idle game of toss-and-catch; others just mill and wander from one arch to another. All of them wear the same Prinny-blue bat-shaped backpack, and the same combination of goggles, gloves, tank top, silver belt, and pants tucked in laced boots. The color schemes are different, but even the ones wearing warmer colors don cooler and duller shades.

It seems she hasn't caught anyone's attention yet, but just as Pleinair begins to pace the circumference of this grand room, she freezes to a halt. She _feels_ more than sees those eyes—sharp, alert, wary _(accusing—no—stop imagining things that are not!)_, and honing in on her like a sniper scope on its target. The laid-back and lax quality of their postures immediately vaporizes, and it takes Pleinair every ounce of concentration she has not to stiffen up and hiss like a cornered Kit Cat.

Rather than giving into the feeling of being on edge, she slumps her shoulders and drops her head slightly, attempting to abandon frayed anxiety for cooler calm. But her control is tremulous, her slowed breathing forced, and slits-for-pupils continue to drive into the back of her skull as she silently strolls along the walls...

She approaches the archway that was originally at her right, and with a small sigh of relief due to its lack of traffic, she darts into the entrance. Pleinair mulls over the idea of wandering deeper into the network of corridors, but the first room she spies once more on her right rips the idea of exploration out of her mind, abandoned and left to flutter weakly in the hall.

Inside, the room is lit in the same manner as the two halls she passed through, but the overall effect is brighter. The ceiling is much closer, unlike the corridor where the glittering crystals above are lost upon the demons below. The shape is different too—Pleinair notices by the sharper corners and edges of the shadows tucked into the corners, that the walls are rigidly vertical rather than domed and rounded like its outside counterpart. Looking towards the opposite end, her jaw drops to find that the room stretches out so far beyond, rather than the snug square room she was half expecting.

It's completely silent save for her quiet breathing, and Pleinair tentatively takes a few steps deeper into the room. One...two...three...she still cannot see the far off wall, and Pleinair resolutely lengthens her stride.

Then, Pleinair comes to a stop before a knee-high barrier of rock crystal. Picking up her sight from the ground again, she stares out at the empty space beyond to see—

Rows of red targets hanging against that distant wall—

Pleinair jerks her head back, swinging it about to give a better scan of the room. To her sides are stacks upon stacks of crates, inside of which are—she moves to stand before one crate at the left wall, labeled "Nether 35" shoved between two marked "RQ-P38" and "KLZ900" and situated atop another written "Nether 58" in equally scratchy handwriting. Stepping on tippy toe, she peers in to see it brimming full with gun magazines of her very own model.

Pleinair blinks owlishly a few times, eyes glancing from the targets to the crate and then back again, before her mind finally processes the information:

_This is a shooting gallery._

Which naturally implies training. Improving aim. Practicing marksmanship. Which—

_Is exactly what I need._

Eyes glassy and wide like a doll's, like a soul possessed, Pleinair's left hand automatically tightens over the handle of her gun. She winces, and dropping the bag at her feet, she readjusts her hold to grip it with both hands. Eyes narrowing as she stands before the leftmost target, her ears ring as a test fire rips through the still air.

It misses the target by a wide margin, glancing off the wall with a few yellow sparks at a spot way too high above. Pleinair sees rather than hears several shards of rock break off and land on the ground. She grimaces as the recoil causes her two hands to jerk up—gun nearly slamming into her forehead—but then she shifts back into position, pointing her gun at a slightly downwards angle before firing her second shot.

Too low, and straying to the right. The shock of recoil lances and rattles through her wrists again.

Pleinair grits her teeth. Bit by bit, she'd make this work. She'd figure this out.

She had to.

* * *

Pleinair uses up all the gun magazines in her bag, empty ones discarded in a pile behind her.

Forced to take a momentary break, Pleinair's eyes fall once more onto the crates. _I should ask permission before using those, but..._Placing the gun down against the barrier, she moves towards the wooden box labeled "Nether 35".

_I need to get better. I need to..._

Arms outstretched, she tries to pull the crate down to the ground, but it is heavy. Tossing that idea aside, she paces back the way she came, eyes fixed on the crates walling the left. The names of many guns, and many repeats of these names, flash across her vision meaninglessly. Then, tucked at the very corner, she sees three grounded, lidded crates marked by the name she desires, bound together by a thick stretch of rough cord.

Pleinair pulls at the boxes with her protesting arms, just enough to tug them out of their comfortable nook. With the new space between the walls and the crates, Pleinair sidles in between and leans against the crate, pushing into the ground with her heels as she puts all body weight on the crates.

It's a tiring, cumbersome process. But eventually, after many accidental knocks on the head and wiping her beading forehead with an arm sleeve, she manages to shove the crates right beside her training spot in the shooting gallery.

With a few clicks and clacks—_at least I've effectively shortened my reloading time_—her gun is ready to use again, and Pleinair resumes her position, knees slightly bent and arms outstretched straight below the level of her eyes. Her crimson orbs narrow, but not purely to zoom in and focus on the target.

Something akin to impatience and discouragement rears its ugly head within the wells of her mind, chanting a chorus of _it's useless futile you're weak_. Pleinair channels that slithering emotion, imagines shifting it all to the target looming beyond the barrier, and thinks vindictively she'll shoot it to bits.

(Because _who is weak and I'm not I won't be—oh really now—it won't happen again_—)

A series of bullets crack and whizz through the air, all which glance off the face of rock, almost _mockingly_ close to the rim of the target. Pleinair bites down on a seething hiss; in her mind, a sickeningly chilling laughter echoes.

* * *

Between the constant crackle and hum of her firing, Pleinair hears the sound of a few footfalls. But just as she stiffens and debates whirling around, the room is silent once again, save for a few empty magazines sliding down the literal mountain pile stacked up behind her.

Perhaps she imagined it. No matter—she needs to focus on this.

_Concentrate._ Otherwise that feeling of _wrongness_ would never dissipate.

* * *

Her world is reduced to her shaking arms, her tightly clenched hands—white at the knuckles; the Nether 35 clasped between thin fingers, and the bulls eye hanging on the wall far, far away.

This is all she sees, the gunpowder all she smells. Her mind is a blank buzz of _not enough not enough must fire more accurately must hit the target make my shots count_, and—

The first bullet hits the second outer ring, but the rest trail off the target in a haphazard track of shells and sparks.

Nonetheless, she continues to fire.

* * *

Pleinair's gun clatters to the stone floor with a resounding clang, and Pleinair issues a pained hiss as she draws her arms up crossed to her chest. The stinging and _burning_ coiling around her wrists and spreading up her entire arm brings a rippling tide of pain like no other. She cannot help the pricks of tears brimming and catching at her lashes: as if the recoil has torn the muscles from the bones, rattled it so thoroughly that her twig-thin wrists must be skin wrapped around an indeterminable mesh of sinew and ivory shards, she cannot move her hand in any way lest it feels like it is shattering all over again.

No matter how much she felt like—needed to—continue training, it seemed like she'd have to call it a day—

"WOAH!" If it weren't for her exhaustion, Pleinair was certain that she'd leap a foot into the air. Whirling about, she spins just in time to see a few empty gun magazines fly out the pseudo-mountain top as a russet mop of spikes pop out of the pile. "That was AWESOME!"

Then: goggles. A few more flying magazines later, a blue head pops out. "It's been AGES since I've seen someone shoot with so much passion!" The blue—_his skin is blue freaking blue I've never seen a humanoid with blue skin!_—strider windmills with his arms as he swims-slash-slides his way down the pile of metallic black. "Yup! That's the way of a true marksman. They don't do it the same anymore really. It's a shame, don't cha think? And—oh hey, can I have your autograph or somethin'?"

Pleinair goggles down at the guy crouching down right beside her. Then: "No." Receiving an expression that Pleinair stubbornly chalks up as something that is definitely not-a-pout, she decides to further elaborate: "My aim is hardly worth the tiniest shred of praise." Jerking her head to the ground below the target, she deadpans, "I missed. Lots."

"But skill is something _aaanyone _can learn," he dismisses with a whine as he rolls up and tumbles straight into the mountain pile again. The magazines crash down upon his head as he vanishes once more from sight. After a few moments of muffled struggles, he pops his head and jumps out in a half hop half skip. "The _drive_ is what is there or not there!" A pause, a frown, and a few blinks later: "So why no signature?"

Pleinair's eye twitches; she seriously weighs the choice of ignoring the vapid strider. Blue or not, she's pretty certain he's an oddball.

"_Pleeassee?_"

"I honestly don't see why you'd want it." Pleinair almost folds her arms across her chest, but the stinging twang makes her let them drape loosely at her sides again.

"Because!" The guy throws his arms above his head, flailing wildly as runs around the room in loopy circles. "You were so epically _cool_ these past hours!"

Pleinair doesn't attempt to cover her exasperated sigh as a cough or anything else. Or tries to recall the footsteps she thought were her imagination. But halfway through, her breath catches and dies—

The strider comes to a halt, head tilted down at her as his forefinger taps at his chin. "Although..."

The voice is lower, tone serious, light-hearted and boisterous child-like qualities completely abandoned, scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind. The motion of his tapping finger ceases completely, and he suddenly becomes an imposing statue. Pleinair automatically cranes her neck to look up—the light in those obsidian eyes suddenly look much sharper, colder, analytical—"You certainly are missing something vital."

Pleinair blinks mutely. Yet with that one flutter of eyelids, the heavy and freezing tenseness lifts off her shoulders and splinters to a hundred fragments, bouncing off the ground and teleported to vacuum. The strider is off again in a blur of kinetic energy, leaping over the barrier to the used target while blindly fishing for something in his backpack. _What was—did that even happen?_

But then he is back, dashing past, jumping onto one of the crates on the right wall. "La da da," he hums idly as his hands fly across—_parchment?_—and several empty bullet shells clatter to the ground. "Sparkle sparkle dabble weee~~"

Pleinair wonders if she should call someone. _A senior strider. Maybe a Healer. Or something. Or—nah._ Idle curiosity wins, and Pleinair approaches the blue demon with only a single eyebrow cocked to mark her doubt in his sanity. Before she can sneak up and see what he is working sparkle sparkle magic on, the strider finishes his apparent task and pulls her foreword—she winces—by the wrist. "Look!" The childish bubbly quality brims forth again. "See? See?"

Then, so quickly like a flash: "The current you"—a vaguely sketched humanoid, a black powdery blob in a vast sea of white—"and a true marksman"—haphazard strokes of black, humanoid smudged grey, but two pinpricks of purest white for eyes—

"My artwork!" He beams and tosses the two papers in the air. "Whaddya think?"

The cant of Pleinair's lips betray a growing smirk. "Dead awful."

"That's sooo meeaannn," he whines again as he teeters on his feet. The papers flutter weakly into the crates behind, and Pleinair's smirk is replaced by a thoughtful frown.

"I'm Pleinair," she introduces succinctly. "Who are you?"

"Ooops. Forgot all about that." The blue strider clad in reddish-brown jerks to a standstill in the middle of another despondent swing. "Name's Salvus!" He runs back to dash up the mountain pile and promptly sinks back in. "Lord class and owner of this shooting gallery! Nice to meet'cha!"

Pleinair winces, and her frown morphs into a grimace. "Um." She casts a furtive glance at the pile of gun magazines that Salvus just made himself home in. "I, er. Those Nether 35 crates. Um—"

Salvus unleashes a fit of mad and happy cackles as he flings lobs of the pile all around the room. In some sort of vapid nonchalance, he asks, "What about?"

"...Nevermind. You might want to ship some new ones, is all."

(Admittedly guilty, Pleinair hopes she won't be charged for that mess.)

"Alrighty!"

(Unbeknownst to Salvus, Pleinair breathes a sigh of relief. And triumph.)

The two pictures pop up in her mind again, and Pleinair slides back into silence as the glittering cavern falls quiet save for Salvus' humming and flapping.

* * *

"Hey!" Salvus bounces on the balls of his feet as he slams a fist into his other palm. "I've actually been thinking of going on a journey for a while; we could travel together as a mentor and pupil pair!"

Pleinair fixes her incredulous gaze on the Strider's, brown-approaching-black eyes literally sparkling with enthusiasm and excitement. "I..." trailing off, she shuts her mouth closed from the gape borne of shock and perplexity, creasing her brow as she shifts her focus beyond russet-colored hair to the dimly lit hall that tapers to a hazy white exit...

The harsh, faceted reflections of light from sharp crystals shift into the duller shine of light on plain wood. At the opposite end of the wooden hall, she sees the vague image of sunlight filtering through the square windowpane...

Then she is up close, nose almost pressed to the transparent glass. Below, feathery touches tickle her exposed ankle—blades of grass rather than wooden floorboards. She peers in, and there is her mother, humming a simple tune as she sweeps the hallway floor—

It is dark, but everything is thrown into a reddish-orange glow. Feet on soft dirt and grass, Pleinair peers through a portal of tree trunks and laden branches to see her mother attempting to fend off inevitable destruction, turning her head and beseeching Pleinair to run—

Her feet are still planted on grass, but the blades are rougher, wilder, more abundant. Her view is wide, and below the glare of the morning sun she sees the shadow of a young Ninja—Zephyrus—right before she collapses from exhaustion—

Back to being grounded on wooden floorboards, but instead of a hallway she is now in a room. It is early, before dawn, and the room glows with the film of blue draped over her sight as Sakura places bag after bag on her bed, rattling explanations and tips—

On snow and ice, and her sight is dotted with the drifts of falling snow. The Elder stands close in front of her, and reveals a cloth satchel that she promptly places in her hands—

Standing frozen on the icy terrain, her eyesight sharpens and captures all detail with pristine accuracy despite the falling sheets of snow; yet just as she thinks that gaping mouth and curling wisps of flame will be the last she sees before she dies, an Ace Archer dives to the rescue—

Bleeding, flat on the ice, her vision is a bob of red and strokes of black and white...before a fiery glow sears her vision, and in the blinding volley that blanks out all other color, the rabbits descend—

And now, now, with a mental jolt, she is ripped from that never-ending hallway and that hazy glow of white, back in the Mineral Caverns, the shooting gallery, standing upon the cold and flat slabs of its stone floor. Once again, in this dimly lit cavern littered with twinkling quartz rocks, there is another demon—Salvus—offering her kindness and aid.

Pleinair's lips twist up into a bitter smile, even if she probably has no right to. She's been sheltered since birth, guided since the Hours, and...always, always having the circumstances magically fall in place for her. She's lucky—ridiculously so. She should be happy. Grateful. Appreciative. Certainly not bitter.

But...all she can think is _perhaps having everyone else help me at such convenient times isn't such a good thing_. Sure, it's great to preserve her life. But she thinks that actually...maybe...there's more to surviving than just physically being _there_. That dodging all incoming blows, fleeing from trouble and running to others...just—_sorry, Zephyrus_—wouldn't, couldn't ever be enough.

At least, she can't have a repeat of _that_. She wouldn't be able to handle it. Another sacrifice on her account—_no_. She needs to be able to forge her own path.

_And then maybe..._

"Sure," she agrees, finally catching Salvus' confused look (no doubt he's been like that for a while, head cocked to the side in curiosity; _how long have I been dazing off?_). He leaps into the air and punches the air above his head, but his second prance is interrupted as Pleinair continues, drawing out every syllable like a cold and heavy weight. "But no babying me." Her crimson orbs clear, harden to reflect glimmering crystal, and her mouth becomes pressed into a thin line. "I need to become stronger."

Salvus blinks twice before beaming, running up beside Pleinair and clapping her on the back with enough force to make her stumble forward. "Nooo problem!" He grins. "Demons fend for themselves and all, yeah? I won't go easy on ya!"

"Alright, then..." Pleinair puffs and sighs softly from the corner of her mouth, in a mixture of relief and something she cannot quite name. "So...now that it's settled...when do we leave?"

Salvus' grin is so wide it lifts the corners of his eyes. With no hesitation, he shouts out: "NOW!"

_...Wait._

"What?"

* * *

**Ending notes:** It really is during writing that the best ideas actually come to mind. This ended up better than the original outline, anyways. Since I know the general direction the story will go in (not concerned about writing myself into a corner), do you guys think I should just wing it after all? Either way, I'll be posting the status of AAPA on my profile from now on, so feel free to check periodically on my progress (or lack thereof).


	8. Chapter 8: respice adspice prospice

**Disclaimer:** Disgaea is not mine~ In fact, I forgot to bring my copy with me. Dang.

* * *

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness ••• Pleinair's Journey

**Ad Astra Per Aspera**

—_to the stars through difficulty—_

**Chapter eight: respice adspice prospice**

—look behind, look here, look ahead

* * *

Salvus' head is tilted innocently to the side as he hums again. "No reason to stay, right? Let's gooo!"

Pleinair sighs. All of a sudden, the weariness of the running and fighting and shooting crashes down on her shoulders, and her mentor-to-be's sunny exuberance does nothing to lift the heavy drapery of exhaustion. "No…I mean…supplies…equipment. Rest. Plans. And…"

She leans back, sliding down the uncomfortable wall of rock crystals as she settles to the ground in a crouch, arms propped up on the knees by her elbows. She doesn't have the strength to spin off a steady monologue of rationalization. "I'm just tired."

Salvus blinks—once, twice, thrice—before he perks up again with a fresh grin smacked in place. "Come to think—"

His eyes drift away to peer at the gun dropped forlornly beside the half-wall of stone. "Yeah." He nods resolutely to himself, bobs on his heels, then skips several meters down the long corridor. "Just wait right here! I'll be done gathering up everything we need in a jiffy!"

Pleinair watches through half-lidded eyes as the supposed Lord exits with flapping arms. "Nnngh..."

Her head falls back like that of a marionette with its strings cut off, hair barely managing to cushion the back of her skull from the mineral crystals digging into her head. Listlessly, she gazes up at the dancing shadows, the flickering glimmers of cobalt blue and pale silver.

_Maybe…if…_

* * *

Pleinair rolls her head over her shoulder and back, scarlet eyes meeting the ghostly plumes of flames softly crackling away in their torches. She drearily attempts to blink sleep out of her bleary eyes, gives up, and stares blankly at the unchanging cavern ceiling stretched before her sight. The gauze of exhaustion draped over her mind veils absolutely everything—tumbling thoughts, stiff aches, knotted muscles…

How long has it been since her mind has been so empty? While she now has no reserves to pull from and reconstruct the mental walls around her, so has come the cessation of panic and callous voices in her head.

_Those__ pictures_, she idly thinks. _Black__ in __white,__white __in__ black__…_she didn't understand it yesterday, and her hazy brain certainly does not grasp the hidden meaning behind them today. _Today_—come to think, how much time has come to pass since she came here? She twists her brow, but her only gauge of time in this semi-darkness is the muddled string of memories, glimmering crystals as backdrop and the crack of bullets as the counting beat.

_Pictures, __pictures__…__Salvus._ Pleinair blinks, recalling the unnaturally cheerful Lord's departure to make preparations for the journey. Maybe if she just confronted him about the pictures, he'd explain the logic behind them. And she could ask about how the preparations have gone while she was here napping. She frowns. _Maybe __I __could __offer __to __help_, she muses, _apologize__ for __being__ an __inconvenience,__ ask __if __he__'__s __really__ sure __that__—_

With a resigned shake of her head, she pushes off the cold stone floor and leans against the wall, stretching in an attempt to rid the sores from resting in such an awkward position. Whatever shattered remnants of her old shyness, she could sincerely do without. If nothing else, she doesn't need the awkward pauses and stumbling over words again, that hesitance to—

_So? What to do now?_

Pleinair jerks straight up, left hand flying up instinctively to shield her wince from non-existent eyes. No matter what broken trail she left in her wake—or perhaps exactly because of it—the last thing she is willing to do is dawdle and hover in place.

_Think. Meet up with Salvus, discuss where we're going, check all the supplies, set off, train, become stronger—right. That._

Taking in a deep, fortifying breath, Pleinair's eyes slide shut. When they reopen, they shine clear crimson, glinting beneath the corporeal sputtering of light. Her sight rests upon the Nether 35, silver and gleaming against the dull rock.

She runs her fingers through her hair, picks the gun off the floor, slings the bag of food over her right shoulder, and glides purposefully out the door. She's not sure of what she thinks of everything that's happened so far, but she is sure that for all of Salvus' eagerness to disembark on a new journey, he sure is a bit slow at putting everything together.

* * *

As far as cold calculations and predictions go, Pleinair finds herself not far from the mark.

"Are you kidding?" A frustrated whine emanates from a room half a kilometer down the corridor, and Pleinair quickens her sedate pace. "What do you mean, there haven't been any new raw supplies shipping in? Does it matter? We have tons of them in storage!"

Pleinair darts under the low entrance to see—unsurprisingly—an arms-flailing Salvus and very harassed looking guns merchant apprentice, a fretting Scout complete with the wild orange hair.

"But, L-Lord, sir…according to price standards set by Rosen Queen, H30ks sell for 210,000 Hell." Seeing Salvus puff up a cheek in obvious disgruntlement and impatience, he hastens to add, "In comparison, ten thousand for this particular gun is nothing! Really!"

"But—what!"

Pleinair quirks up an eyebrow. Salvus, hands clutching the counter, sucks in a deep breath, arches back, then springs right up with renewed vigor. "Nuh-uh. _No__ way._ Don't give me that. They're the traditional staple of novice scouts in Mineral Caverns! They're _supposed_ to be free of charge! This—is just—"

He chokes off, head spinning like clockwork as he tries to think of a suitable word. "Hah! _Blasphemy_!"

The Scout standing behind the counter blinks back, completely unmoved.

Salvus proceeds to rub his cheeks and huff. Continuing the spirit of dramatics, he prances in circles and gesticulates wildly. Pleinair eyes catch sight of a new Feather Token tied to a lock of hair on the left side of his head: trailing from the top of his ear down to the base of his neck and swinging haphazardly with his movements, it looks much like the feather of a ruffled bird. "It's the end of the _world_!"

Pleinair wonders if she should intervene. The thought stutters to a halt, though, as a boom from the cave hole behind the gun seller sends the three of them jolting up in surprise.

"What are ye bickering about outside, young lad?"

The apprentice in question grimaces. Salvus smirks in triumph. Pleinair looks on with vague bemusement.

Some more grunts, shuffles, and clatters later, a bulky man—the owner of this shop, Pleinair presumes—emerges from the dark. His black hair looks almost blue under the glow of the puttering flames, and the scars marring his arms and chin nearly makes Pleinair shudder in nervousness. Fortunately (for her), the shop keeper's focus is entirely targeted on the one manning the counter.

"Well?" He barks. "Explain."

"Um…well, there's a customer." The Scout's gaze is intent on his tapping fingers. The man snorts, and with a small squeak, he squeaks out: "The H30k guns!"

"The H30k guns," he deadpans. He seems to deduce the situation quickly enough, because he starts rumbling an explanation as he ruffles his apprentice's hair. "Well kid, nuthin' can be done `bout those price tags, `m afraid. Sucks to be—"

The impatient tapping of boots against stone echoes in the room. The Strider looks up. Pleinair glimpses a manic grin spread across Salvus' face, before it is wiped off by a cool skeptical raise of the eyebrow.

"L-l-lord Salvus!" The man takes a step back, waves his hands in a placating gesture, then dives back into the back cave. Several heavy thumps later, his head pokes out of the opening, and Salvus makes an easy catch of the gun flying in mid-air.

"Need bullets?"

"Nah. Got them in the shooting gallery. Thanks."

The man nods and disappears again. Salvus spins the gun, presses it into Pleinair's hands, and drags her out of the cave room by the wrist—Pleinair bites back a hiss—, triumphant grin back in place.

* * *

They're back in the shooting gallery Pleinair had just left. Salvus shoves the crates around, apparently in search for the magazines of this H30k model. Weighing the gun in her right palm, Pleinair notes how much lighter it is than her own bulky Nether 35. Examining it more curiously, she studies the artful skeleton of silvery metal largely inlaid with something shining a dull earthen brown, tough and smooth but also oddly translucent—

"Resin," Salvus says as he lets her satchel dangle before her eyes. Snapping to attention, she notes the way it bulges slightly. _Gun __magazines__…__?_

"For the H30k?"

"Uh-huh."

"Don't you…" Pleinair trails off nervously, before deciding to forge bravely ahead, politeness shoved aside. "Have your own bag…for your own supplies…and all?"

Salvus raises an eyebrow. "Sure thing!" He turns around, back to Pleinair, so she can get a full view of his bat-winged backpack. "And _my_ gun," he chirps, "is right here." He jabs at his belt holster.

"Oh," she replies automatically. "Then why did you spend so long arguing with that shopkeeper for th—_oh_."

Her eyes narrow as her glare shoots straight at the marksman before her. "Didn't I tell you _not_ to baby me?"

Salvus blinks down uncomprehendingly, turning back around and donning a rare frown. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are. This gun," Pleinair flatly intones as she waves the H30k in his face, "is an unnecessary upgrade. I already have one that works fine. _Perfectly_ fine. Convenient freebies are not—"

"I'm not," he reiterates, effectively slicing through Pleinair's tirade. On a more upbeat note, he says, "Besides, like I said before, it's the traditional choice of novice marksmen. And there's no problem since it's free!"

"You nearly scared that poor shop apprentice out of his wits with your antics," Pleinair mutters as she shakes her head ruefully. Salvus beams and makes his way back out into the corridor, and she autonomously starts to follow before reeling to a halt.

"Wait. Free or not, how is this not—if I'm to rely on my own strength—using a better gun as a crutch won't work!"

With a twitch of his eyes, Salvus stalks back to her lingering, uncompromising form and wrenches the Nether 35 out of her hands. "The H30k gun is light, easy on the wrists, with the least amount of recoil for a formidable amount of power. Nether 35s are bulky, outdated in design, and have _ridiculous_ amounts of recoil for firepower not even _worth_ considering." He flicks his hand to the side, and the gun spins wildly through the air until it clatters and bounces off the wall.

"I don't need a pupil who hinders her potential with useless self-implemented limitations, and both of us know that we didn't agree on this mentor-pupil relationship to drag either of us down."

Pleinair bows her head, bangs effectively shading her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she looks in askance at the Nether 35 tossed so mercilessly aside. "But…"

Salvus exhales as he steps back and braces his hands against the cave entrance. "Come on, we're heading East. The guns merchant was talking about how supplies were cut and I want to check that out first."

"Uhn…" Pleinair hesitates, cautiously lifting her head and peering at her mentor. "F-first…can I…the gun—"

Salvus' forehead collides unceremoniously with the rock face. "I already told y—"

"N-no! Not like that." Pleinair shakes her head to placate the groaning demon. "It's just—well—the Nether 35. There's an Armsmaster in it, so just leaving it behind would be a waste."

"Armsmaster?"

She hastily nods. "Shamrock the Oakrot, I think."

"Armsmaster!" He claps in childish delight, runs to the gun situated on the floor, and raises it like a trophy as he scrambles out of the room. "Alrighty! We'll hunt that crazy staff guy down, _then_ go East! C'mon!"

"Wha—"

A cackle reverberates down the corridor. "With this, I'll be getting your autograph in no time! Awesome!"

Still unsettled, Pleinair stands in place until she realizes Salvus has already swerved out of the corridor. Hastily pulling herself together, she dashes after the echoing thump of boots, H30k gripped lightly yet firmly in her left hand.

* * *

They weave through a maze of crooked corridors, tunnel after tunnel of crystal rock refracting blue-and-silver torch lights. Pleinair jogs at a steady speed a few meters behind Salvus, still somewhat wary of his presence after their recent…argument? They glide right past several striders, but the crowd gradually thins as they continue on their path of twists and turns.

The Lord's steps are carefree and light, as if he is bouncing on the balls of his feet, zero trace of the intimidating seriousness, clipped words, and flaring irritation that he used to cut Pleinair down mere minutes before. His shifts in mood are nothing short of disconcerting; she can't deduce how much of his easygoing mannerisms and bubbly cheer is portrayed in earnest, just as she cannot figure out when that underlying facet of grave seriousness will suddenly uncoil and leash out. _Can__'__t__ be __taken __at __face-value_, she muses. _In __a __way,__ that __is __even __scarier __than __someone__ who __constantly __radiates __a __dangerous__ aura. __Much__ like __a __dragon __in __disguise_, she grimaces.

She had nearly written him off in her mind as a vapid blue oddball, but for all his apparent silliness, he did not babble for nothing. The words _useless __self-implemented __limitations_ ring in Pleinair's head, and she lowers her gaze to the H30k as she draws her left hand before her torso.

Hadn't Zephyrus pretty much done the same thing for her? Ninjutsu dodging techniques, the Ninja Shoes—and she had readily accepted back then. Haunted by the look in her mother's eyes, wondering if she regretted it all—_her__ retirement,__ the __abandonment__ of __her __staff, __her __magic __orbs_—

The Ninja Shoes are a tool to boost her speed and evasive abilities. The H30k, another tool to boost her marksmanship. _In__ that __way, __neither __of __them__ are __replacements __for __true__ skill, __but__…_

_That __was __back __then_, she thinks stiffly. She had resolved to hone whatever talents she has, in a quest to become independent. But on the journey to gain that strength, could she achieve it by stubbornly depending on no one but herself? _No_—Pleinair shakes her head—_course __not.__ I __wouldn__'__t __have __agreed__ to__ Salvus__' __proposition __to __become __his __pupil __otherwise._

Accepting someone's teachings but rejecting the items they offer, was that silly of her, then? Yet freely given or not, nothing is taken without losing something else, somehow—whether that be a debt returned, or something that can simply no longer be. Even now, she can feel all too acutely the burdens of past generosity received: the fact that, in a way, her life is no longer solely her own. _Run_, her mother had screamed; s_urvive__ the __Hours_, Zephyrus had said; _continue __to __fly, __child_ urged the Sevria Elder—and all of these promises compounded into a will to survive, expectations and hopes pieced together with her own present and future.

_Especially…Usagi Dr—_

Pleinair's mouth twists, expression flickering into a pinched one before smoothing back to a neutral countenance. Regret sears the back of her eyelids, but if she could go back and relive those past days, what would—could—she have done differently? _But __there__'__s__ no __way __of __knowing__ how __that __would __turn __out_, she thinks bitterly, _no __point __dwelling__ on __it. __Run,__ face __forward__—__but__ how __far __am__ I __willing __to __go__…__will __I _need_ to __go, __in __order __to__ become __strong __enough?_

Her memory shifts back to the two pictures Salvus drew, back in the shooting gallery at the crates. _Something__ lacking_, he had said. What is it? How would she reach it? Pleinair opens her mouth, half-prepared to ask her mentor.

"…—r that?"

"H-huh?"

Salvus tosses his head, hand curved around his ear in a gesture to listen. Pleinair stands still, listening to the steady rhythm of their breathing, stretching her hearing range so…

_Kkssshhiiiink, klink, klink, klink, klink klink—_

"Up ahead," Pleinair says. "Not too sure of the distance, but it sounds like…rock shards…breaking?"

"Yeah, sure took us a while to find. Let's see what he's up to!"

* * *

"Hey, Gramps!" Salvus yells as he clamors past the cave hole. "I want a Specialist trans—"

"CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT I'M BUSYYYYYY RIGHT NOW, BOY?"

Pleinair's hands shoot up to cover her ringing eardrums. Besides the surprisingly loud bellow of the old Lord before her—blue wrinkled skin, white spiky hair, gnarled staff—the tiny room literally trembles as rocks shatter and ricochet off the walls. That, in combination with the loud incessant thrum of the…cannon…the elderly Lord is tapping with his staff, makes for a terrifying cacophony of an orchestra.

"I…don't think you're going to win this one, Salvus."

Apparently, her mentor shares much of the same sentiment, because he pulls at the back of her necktie before they are both stumbling out of the cave and climbing back up the cavern slope.

"Crazy old man," he mutters, "drilling new caves, as if the place ain't big enough already."

Pleinair shakes her head as she attempts to recover from the ringing in her ears. "Specialist transfer? He's not a gun-wielder?"

"Nah." A grin, half exasperated, half fond, finds itself plastered on his face. "He's all about the Geo Change and Dark Canon specials. Says that staffs increase his casting range, so he doesn't need to walk so far to summon a canon on some poor—"

He brings his hands up to form two air quotes. "—'mucking miscreants'. Me, I was taught by his bro—super marksman, by the way—but he's very traditional too, in an odd sense."

"So…"

Salvus shrugs. "No good trying to get anything from him when he's worked up like that. Let's go, we'll deal with that later."

* * *

A lull of silence falls over them as they wind their way back up to the entrance. Salvus casually salutes some of the Striders as they pass by, but most of their steady march proceeds with a nocturnal sort of quiet. Eventually, they enter the main entrance of the cavern, and Pleinair cranes her head back to peer up at the high walls, the sparkling rock crystals, the ceiling that stretches beyond the darkness. Even if it's the second time she sees it, it is still a sight to behold, so she files it in memory as they make their way to the surface world again.

It's foggy outside, the craggy mountains washed in a pale glow of bleak light. The ground beneath their feet crunches as they forge steadily ahead, as if counting the minutes that slip by, empty of conversation.

"Hey. Um…"

Salvus turns his head back. "Yeah?"

"About earlier on. I'm sorry."

He flashes a laidback grin before his head swerves to the front again. "No problem, haha."

They continue meandering through the empty valley, Mineral Caverns and pebbled ground left behind in the dense early morning fog. Just as when she came dashing past this way, the world is utterly silent, deceptively peaceful. To think that she'd be retracing her footsteps…

"Where are we headed?"

Salvus blinks. "East, right?"

Seeing Pleinair quirk her head inquiringly, he aimlessly scratches his head. "I was thinking Sunset Town. Because right past them are the hills, and after that is the Eastern Woods."

Pleinair's feet still, utterly petrified. Horror swirls and washes over her like a tide, pushing her back, the sudden onslaught of reluctance chaining and dragging her down down _down_ beneath the surface, suffocating, _choking_—

"The…" she whispers. Swallows. Her mouth has gone dry. "Woods?"

"Errr…yeah." Salvus shrugs. "The trees—tree sap, technically—they are the raw materials for the H30ks, and since that Scout mentioned it I've actually been wondering…Pleinair? You okay?"

_Breathe_, she mentally commands, shoving at her swimming emotions in an attempt to regain balance. Unconsciously, she runs her lower lip through her teeth as she forces herself to continue walking forward. _I__'__m __fine_, she attempts to reassure, but it comes out as nothing more than a shaky shudder and puff of breath. Confused, Salvus resumes walking, trekking the path from behind.

Her heart beats out a terrible staccato of trepidation, and the slow walk does nothing to ease the tension coiling around her thin frame. _I__ don__'__t __want __to __see__—__don__'__t__ want __to __go __back__—__anything __but__—_

Maybe they could just interrogate the Prinny Scouts that she saw at the tavern? Maybe they wouldn't need to see for themselves, just ask Sakura about the shipping situation from there to the Mineral Caverns…

Pleinair nearly jolts to a standstill again; instead, she twists her forearms together like writhing snakes. _Sakura.__ She__'__ll __be__ surprised __to __see __me __again. __And__ will __probably__ ask __if __I __managed__ to __deliver __the __messages__…__how __Badre__ and __the __Village __of __Beast__—_

_That__ won__'__t __be__ so __bad_, she thinks as her heart quails. Well, speaking of her experience at Badre would be unpleasant, but compared to that, returning to her—_dead_—village was infinitely worse. And if she showed reluctance, hopefully Sakura wouldn't push for too much. She needn't divulge all the gruesome details of her fresh experience.

Thus decided, Pleinair wheels around, speaking over her still-thudding heart. "We don't need to go to the Woods, right? There's quite a distance between Sunset Town and that forest. Asking around in the town should suffice—I think they'd catch wind of anything big that's gone wrong."

Her mentor keeps walking as Pleinair slowly shifts her head to keep his expression in sight. With a thoughtful frown and a short hum, Salvus seems to ponder over this momentarily before nodding in agreement. "Yup, that'll work."

"Okay. And…"

"Woah—wait a sec. You're right about the town and the forest not being splat next to each other. You know the way?"

Pleinair blinks, and resumes walking beside him as she nods in assent. "You?"

He huffs. "Of course! I won't be outdone by my pupil!"

She manages a small smile as her eyes turn to the path ahead. Still nothing but grey stone and fog. "Then you know that at the pace we're going, it's going to take forever before we get there, right?"

Salvus creases his brow. "Well, yeah, but…"

Her smile morphs into a devious smirk. Skipping a few steps ahead and blocking his path, she says, "I'll race you."

"Huh?"

Foot tapping impatiently, Pleinair points her forefinger at him before jerking her thumb back to point at herself. She _needs_ this, an excuse to run so she can ignore the furious rhythm of her anxious heartbeats. "You and I, a race. If I manage to get into Sunset Inn before you do," she enunciates slowly, "you have to treat me. Dessert, or the ilk."

Russet eyebrows twitch. "And if I win?"

She shrugs. "Up to you." Then, as a tactical move to rile him into accepting, she taunts: "Doesn't matter, because you won't win."

The twitch develops into a tic. "You're on!" Salvus shouts as he breaks out in a run.

Pleinair slides her eyes shut and stretches, counting to ten. When she snaps her eyes open, she immediately transforms into fluid motion and a racing blur of kinetic energy, a ghost zipping across empty lands.

From behind, a voice carries over the wind:

"Ho shit."

* * *

"Welcome to Sunset Town"  
—the quaint refuge in Hell.

Gazing at the humble wooden sign and the unadorned town entrance, Pleinair is overcome with a wave of nostalgia. Only a few days have passed since she stepped past the town threshold, but even if her memories of her brief stay here weren't quite _happy_, they were still comfortably familiar.

Dashing down the cobbled streets, she pokes her head through the door of the tavern to give a cursory glance of the customers inside. _No__ russet__ spikes,__ check. __No __blue-skinned__ humanoid,__ check._ With a happy nod of her head, she steps back out to the street and ambles down the way she came.

Pleinair estimates that it will still probably take Salvus the large part of the day to get here. She idly adjusts the ribbon on her head as she frowns._ At least, I hope he doesn't take longer than that._ She left him in the dust ages ago, and doesn't have a way to accurately gauge his speed and progress.

_Well, __I __have__ time, __I __suppose,__so__…_Spotting the cursive script of the Rosen Queen sign, she deviates from her straight course into the store. _May __as __well __get __some __business__ done._

The bell tinkles as she enters the shop, and the Rune Knight at the counter bows. "How may I help you today?"

Pleinair glides to the counter and returns a polite smile. "Is the lady in charge of Specialist transfers here today? If it's convenient…"

The Battle Depot manager's eyes flash in recognition. "Oh! It's you! Yes, yes, she's here, I'll call her right out."

The Knight darts to the backroom, and Pleinair lightly drums her fingers on the table, other hand cradling her head while she props her elbows on the countertop. Soon enough, the shop keeper returns, Wind Mage trailing gracefully behind.

"Hm? So what do we have today?" She flicks her head back, green hair cascading behind her shoulders with the motion. Pleinair sets the two guns on the table, and points from the Nether 35 to the H30k.

"Shamrock the Oakrot, please. The Armsmaster."

Just as Pleinair had remembered, the girl withdraws her staff, raps it sharply against the Nether 35, bringing up a white glow and circle of runes with the motion. The seal rotates, slowly at first, until she taps the end of her staff—glow now reduced to a lone whirling orb of white—on the H30k and it spins into a whirr of pink before fading into the late morning light.

"Armsmaster, 1902," she whistles. "I remember now—you came with the Ninja who had that powerful Statistician."

Pleinair smiles, a bare tilt of the lips. "Thank you," she murmurs, just as the Green Mage twirls and makes her way towards the backroom. Returning the H30k to her burlap sack, she slides the Nether 35 forward on the counter as she turns to face the brunette. "How much can I sell this for?"

The Rune Knight picks up the gun, giving it a cursory examination. "I'll pay 1980 Hell for it."

Pleinair nods. "Alright. I'll sell it."

Laying the Nether 35 aside, the Knight reaches below to withdraw a pouch. Counting the appropriate amount of coins, she lays it back on the table. Pleinair double-checks: one gold, nine silver, eight copper coins. With a polite bow to the storekeeper, she accepts the bag and prepares to head out the door.

"Um, miss," the Knight starts, and Pleinair turns back in confusion. "Did you happen to come across any news from Badre?"

Pleinair squirms uncomfortably as she leans back against the shop's wall. "Come to think," she muses aloud, "the archer isn't here with you today."

The brunette frowns. "She's sleeping in the backroom, actually. Hasn't been feeling quite well since the town leader told us to lay low." She shuts her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ahzi Dahakas and Nidhoggs."

Pleinair throws her head back to greet the wall as well, pondering over what she should say. Frankness would be brutal, and hardly uplifting. Lying though…wasn't a real option. News would travel, sooner or later, and the unexpected tidings would be all the worse. The Knight gazes expectantly at her, so she settles for general truth.

"The Archers of Badre engaged in battle with the Dragons," she says. "I don't know of the final number of casualties, though I'm pretty sure they emerged victorious."

"I—" The Rune Knight pauses, thoughts turned inwardly as she mulls this over. "I understand."

She shuffles a bit, gives a deep bow, and then calls out the standard "thank you, please come again". Pleinair nods once more, crimson eyes shielding a mixture of hesitation and sympathy.

"Tell her…tell her she has my condolences. I-I'm sorry." And with that, she makes her leave of Rosen Queen.

* * *

The tavern of Sunset Inn is also just as she remembered it: the sole center of hubbub and rowdy activity in an otherwise near-lethargic town. Pleinair spends the afternoon and evening seated at a corner table, shadowed from the rest of the patrons and blending in with the furniture unnoticed. There's even the same gang as last time—the ones that had their table cut into halves by an angrily thrust blade—, though she opts to tune them out.

Pleinair stands and stretches with a yawn. _Guess __Salvus__ won__'__t__ be__ making __it __today_, she surmises. Glancing at the bar and noting the absence of a certain town leader, she weaves back to the entrance and takes the flight of wooden stairs up.

"Sakura?"

A long ponytail fans out as the Bushi whirls around. Coal eyes widening comically, she exclaims, "Pleinair! What are you doing back here? How—"

Pleinair cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "Long story," she laughs weakly. "There's lots to inform you about, I guess."

Sakura's head bobs eagerly, and Pleinair wearily swings her head side-to-side with a small pang of guilt. "Later, there'll be time for it. How much is it for one room?"

Sunset Town's leader stands oddly still, before fluttering with motion as she recovers her polite host persona. "O-of course! 100 Hell per night. Here." Hastily, she pulls a silver key from the hoop dangling from her white sash. "306 like last time?"

"Okay," Pleinair acquiesces, as she withdraws a silver coin from the pouch and drops it in the innkeeper's hand. "One night for now, though I'm not sure how long I'll book it for."

"S-sure," Sakura murmurs, obviously still half-dazed. Straightening up, she declares with a stronger voice, "I'll be at the bar whenever you need me."

"`Kay," she says. She's halfway up the second flight of stairs before she adds as an afterthought: "If a hyperactive, Feather-token wearing marksman collapses at the entrance, tell him I'm already here!"

Pleinair doesn't hear a reply, but seeing as she still catches the sight of sandaled feet, she figures that Sakura has heard her request.

Difficult conversations and painful memories, she'll confront tomorrow. Or whenever Salvus chooses to arrive. For now, a refreshing shower and night's worth of rest seems that much more inviting.

Pleinair reaches the third floor landing, passes several doors before pausing and inserts the key with a soft _click_.

_Tomorrow…_

_It'll be alright._

(_Really_, a lingering voice taunts. _Will __it __really?_)

_Time__ will__ move __on,__ whether __I__ like __it __or__ not_, she berates herself. The door swings open. _So__ shush_.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** 4 months. GUYS, I'M SO SORRY. If you're still reading this, you have my undying love. And as extra bonus, have story idea. Set in the Disgaea:HoD universe, but follows a completely different sequence of events (what are these called, AR fics?).

**Summary/Prompt:** Overlord Laharl seeks a genuine challenge. In waltzes Flonne, radiating power, charisma, and…refusing to battle. Not everyone views life as a game.

There we go. Fellow Disgaea authors, have funsies. Hopefully, I'll be seeing you guys again late January or early February with another AAPA update!

On another note, FFnet saw fit to glue all my italics together. Most uncool. If the problem persists, I'll edit it later. It's 2, and dammit I'm tired.


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